


The House

by Irisunohimitsu



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Haunted Houses, Homelessness, Sort Of, Tony Stark is an ass, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-05 06:07:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irisunohimitsu/pseuds/Irisunohimitsu
Summary: You will stay, until you have learned to value what you have above what you have not.Then, my darling, if you still wish it, you will be returned to us.After the attack on Jotunheim, Thor catches Loki and pulls him to safety. His mother wins the right to set his punishment and banishes him to Earth, just as Thor was.Loki lives alone, his powers bound to a house hidden in the centre of New York City.Darcy has no home. She wanders the streets and sleeps where she can, always dodging danger. Until she finds the house in the park. At first it seems like a safe haven, but that security soon turns to fear, for the house is haunted by an invisible, potentially homicidal ghost.





	The House

**Author's Note:**

> So this started out as a germ of an idea, which I planned to write as a brief one-shot. To say it got away from me would be an understatement!
> 
> I've left it as all one piece, as it was never written with chapters in mind, so I'm not sure that chapters wouldn't disrupt the flow of the story. Let me know if you think chapters would be a good idea!  
> I've also only used line-breaks to indicate a change in POV, rather than names or different fonts, etc. I thiiink it's mostly clear whose eyes we are seeing through, but again, let me know if there are any areas that need clarifying.
> 
> Enjoy! I had a lot of fun writing this :)

**_ The House. _ **

* * *

 

_You will stay until you have learned to value what you have above what you have not.  
Then, my darling, if you still wish it, you will be returned to us._

 

* * *

 

It looked abandoned. Not all that long abandoned, perhaps, but certainly not looked after. Somehow, perhaps through some historic trick of city planning the house was nestled _inside_ the borders of the park. It was hidden away in the trees along a long, winding driveway which, judging by the growth of bushes and weeds along it had not been used in years.

The house itself was old, but looked to be in a fair condition. There were vines from some frondy climbing plant choking the walls so it almost blended in to the trees around it, but the brickwork seemed secure, and the windows – unusually for an abandoned building in New York – were all intact.

Cautiously, Darcy moved closer, keeping an eye open for movement inside, or in the overgrown lawn at the front of the house. Nothing. She reached the steps of the porch and braced herself, taking a deep breath before climbing the first one. The wood creaked under her weight and she froze, but nothing happened. No shouts of anger, no sudden face at the window… nothing.

She climbed the rest of the steps and picked her way over to the large front door. Now, she was almost completely sure the house was abandoned, for she had to pull away several long strands of that climbing plant just to reach the handle. Not really expecting much, she pushed down on the handle, and the door swung open. It wasn’t locked.

Darcy was taken off guard by the unanticipated movement of the door, so leapt backwards, colliding with some more tendrils of the plant hanging above her and wrestling with them a moment swearing copiously. Once she’d calmed her racing heart, she looked back at the door, now resting half-open, squared her shoulders and marched inside.

It was still just about light outside, but the leaves covering the windows meant shadows enveloped her as soon as she stepped inside. Swearing under her breath, she dropped her backpack with a heavy clunk and rooted around in a side pocket for a moment, emerging triumphant with a small but bright flashlight. Switching it on, she swung it around her, lighting up the gloom to see what she had walked into.

“Hello?” she called, seeing no sign of movement but still nervous of a crazy old cat lady or something.

The inside of the house seemed far more modern than the exterior would have suggested. The door opened into a narrow entrance hall, two doors on the walls to her left. They were both closed, so she walked on by them for now, passing through an arched entrance to a large open plan kitchen and living area. Her feet dragged through the thick layer of dust on the floor, muffling her steps as she slowly moved further into the house. There was a large fireplace against one of the walls, but that wasn’t what caught her interest – given how long the house appeared to have been empty it would probably be stuffed up with soot and all-sorts. What was interesting to Darcy was the long, comfortable looking couch stood against the wall near the fireplace.

“Oh my god that looks squishy!” She muttered to herself, abandoning her caution a little and striding over. She gave it a few thumps, surprised at how little dust seemed to rise up from it – far less than the long-abandoned entrance hall would suggest. There were even cushions, and they didn’t totally stink of damp.

“Holy craaap, this is perfect…” Darcy couldn’t help the small giggle that burst from her. It was due to rain that night, and her tent had been stolen a week ago when she was napping on a park bench, along with her sleeping bag. Really, it was a miracle she had held on to them for as long as she had.

People were desperate, she got it… only she was desperate too, damn it!

* * *

** 13 months earlier **

After failing to be accepted for any internship at all – not even the ridiculous astrophysics one she applied for on a whim – Darcy found herself in a very sticky situation. Without the credits for her course she could not graduate that year. Her application for an extra year of student loan had been rejected, and she would be turfed out of her halls as soon as the school year ended. Never mind the fact that it was technically her university’s fault she was short in the first place, as they had miscalculated her credit requirements for the science portion of her degree – the only concession she had been able to win from them was the agreement to count her departure as part of a ‘leave of absence’ so that, should she manage to raise the funds she would be able to complete the last part of her degree at a later date. Fat chance of that. Since being discharged from the foster care system at 18 she had lived at the university all year-round, so now she had nowhere to go. Desperate, she tried calling her last carers, Dora and Robert. They had never been kind, exactly, and had seemed glad to be rid of her when she went to college, but she thought they would accept her back for at least as long as it took to sort out her situation. However, instead of even a temporary solution, she had discovered that Dora had moved away from her home after losing Robert to cancer. The new owners of the house had no forwarding number or address for her. Holding back her tears, Darcy had politely said goodbye and ended the call.

She left the halls with all her belongings packed into two suitcases and a backpack, and wandered down the streets, feeling utterly numb. She wasn’t sure how long she walked for, but eventually, it began to grow dark. Fumbling at her phone with heavy fingers, she called one of her few friends who had not already moved home for the holiday.

“Hey babe, sorry I know it’s kinda short notice, but I got kicked out of dorms and can’t get home yet. Can I kip on your floor for the night?”

She had a roof over her head, for now at least, she reflected as she lay wide awake, staring up at the ceiling. But she wouldn’t be able to stay here long – Jessie was due to go home the next day, and Darcy wanted to be gone before her parents arrived to pick her up – parents might ask awkward questions. In her mind, she turned over her options. She wasn’t particularly employable without her degree. Sure, she had a good grade on her high school diploma, but nothing beyond that, and after dedicating the last 3 years to her studies, the only thing she had to put on her resume was a part time job in a laundrette. Not exactly high flying. The kind of work she would be looking at with no fixed address to give wouldn’t put her anywhere near enough to afford a flat…

She huffed and rolled over. Best get used to sleeping on the floor, it looked like she’d be roughing it for a while.

The next morning, she woke long before Jessie was even stirring, ate the biggest breakfast she could manage and slipped out the door leaving a thank you note in her wake. She spent the day sorting through her suitcases and slimming them down until she could fit everything she needed in her backpack and a large tote bag. Anything she wasn’t keeping, she sold wherever possible, and donated the rest. The money from that, plus a little of her savings was enough to buy her a tent, a sleeping bag and a one-way ticket to New York. She had a few friends who had gone on to jobs in the city, so she was hoping to throw herself on their mercy, at least until she had worked out what she was going to do with herself.

It worked, for a couple of months, but before long she always had to move on. Next, she tried shelters. It worked, sort of – she was taken to a disused bus-depot and allowed to set up camp with nearly a hundred other homeless people. The first few days were terrifying, but she survived. There was a little food, and people to talk to… It was fine. It wasn’t perfect: Her ipod was stolen within a week, then her phone… then, someone noticed the body she was hiding under her baggy clothes. At first, her taser helped her out but then that was stolen too. As soon as she noticed it missing, Darcy packed up her bags, and left.

After that, she just stayed wherever she could find. She still had her bank account, and tried to beg for money and deposit a little bit every day – until she was forced to close the account when the bank realised she had no fixed address. She had a job at a diner, briefly, waiting tables and cleaning out back. Unfortunately, that didn’t give her any access to showers, so she lost the job a few weeks later, a guilty looking manager explaining that they couldn’t keep her on when she was consistently breaking their code of conduct with her poor hygiene.

After that she tried a few late night cleaning jobs, which was somewhat more successful – they didn’t seem to mind if she smelt a little, and if she was sneaky about it she could sometimes manage a shower.

Then she was caught doing just that when she was supposed to be working, and the agency let her go.

She took what she could get, but nothing ever seemed to stick, and it didn’t help that she was having to walk increasingly long distances to find herself somewhere safe to sleep. Staying more than one night in the same place didn’t seem like a good idea – there were some nasty people around, and if someone caught her unawares… well, she had heard the stories.

* * *

Darcy was humming cheerfully to herself, counting her blessings that she’d actually bothered to investigate that weird gap in the bushes when she felt something prickle on the back of her neck. She turned, an apology already spilling from her lips.

“Hey, sorry but your door was unlocked and the dust, um, no offence. I just assumed there was no-one…” she finished turning, eyes scanning the room… “here.” She finished lamely, ears suddenly straining for the least bit of noise.

She thought she felt something moving past her, but ignored it in favour of a humming noise coming from the kitchen area. Hardly able to believe her luck, she rushed over to the fridge and tore the door open – it was cold! This house still had working electricity. Shaking with excitement, she tried the taps next. Electricity wasn’t much use to her since all her electronics had been stolen, but water… After a heart-breaking moment of sputtering, a brown, lukewarm stream of water gushed out of the tap. She let it run, watching with glee as it grew gradually clearer.

Running water and electricity… Darcy counted up in her head how long it had been since she’d had a proper wash… one week? Two? Those quick splash-downs in public bathrooms were no real substitute… especially now, when she’d only just finished her period and was feeling particularly grotty ‘down there.’

She was stood, staring at the clear water flowing from the tap when the front door slammed, then reopened, this time with a pointed creak it had not made before.

She jumped violently, and froze a moment. Fortunately, her rational brain quickly caught up with her superstition and reminded her that the coming storm had brought more than a few gusts of wind with it, and she had left the door wide open. Besides, what was a ghost or two when she might be able to have a _shower_?

She bustled out into the hall and closed the front door again, finding the lock and twisting it shut. On her way back in, she tried the two doors off the hall, flashlight raised to use a weapon if necessary, as well as just to give her light. The first was a study or library of some sort, filled with bookshelves, most of which seemed to be empty with just a few books lying here and there. The second yielded her a bathroom – and yes, the lights did work! She turned the shower on and left it to run, clearing the stagnant water out of the pipes.

Walking back to the living room to grab her towel, new clothes and precious supply of shampoo and conditioner, she decided to shout again, just in case there was someone in. It would probably be polite to warn them before she started stripping.

“Hey. Um, hey?” She called as loud as she dared, even going into the living room to call up the stairs. “Hey, is anyone up there?” No reply. “Well, that’s cool then. OK, well, if anyone is listening, I’m totally sorry if you do live here but I’m gonna use your shower. I’ve not had a shower in like, two weeks, so I’m kinda desperate. Sorry again…” Feeling stupid for shouting at nothing, she shrugged and returned the bathroom, pulling her clothes off as she went. She decided to take the filthy clothes into the shower with her and give them a good wash whilst she got clean. The water was freezing, but she didn’t care. She lathered up her hair and started singing at the top of her lungs.

Then the lights shut off. She screeched and dove out of the shower, using the rapidly dimming light from the bathroom’s one small window to find her flashlight, wrapping her towel around her and poking her head out into the hall. She flicked the switch again, but the lights stayed stubbornly out. Shrugging, hand on her chest to calm the staccato beat of her heart, she wandered back into the bathroom, set her flashlight up haphazardly as a spotlight and continued her shower. It took her nearly ten minutes more before she felt sufficiently clean to get out the shower. She dried herself off, pulled on her clean(ish) clothes, and wrapped her hair in the towel.

She hung her dripping old clothes up in the shower to start drying, and padded back into the main room, dust clinging to her damp feet. She was glad of her flashlight, as it was now completely dark outside and she could see nearly nothing beyond the cone of light it gave her.

There were more books on the coffee table beside where she had dumped her bag. She frowned at them for a moment, sure they hadn’t been there earlier… but then, she had been rather preoccupied by the sofa. Speaking of which…

She grabbed a blanket off one of the armchairs across from her, shook it out and wrapped it around her, then threw herself onto the sofa, snuggling into the slightly smelly cushions. Lying comfortably for the first time in longer than she could be bothered to count, she listened to the rain pattering on the window outside. It was nice to simply listen to the sound of the rain, without having to worry she might get wet. As the sound soothed her, she closed her eyes…

And immediately opened them again. There was a grating noise coming from the kitchen – something metallic. Opening her eyes and retrieving her flashlight as quietly as she could, she flicked it on and trained it towards the sound.

A knife was lying innocently on the kitchen counter, glinting in the beam of her torch. Not so scary on its own, but she was almost entirely certain it had been resting in the knife block up until that moment. Again, the rational part of her brain forcibly asserted herself and insisted that she was being silly, that she must simply not have noticed. Still, she counted the knives left in the block – five – before she turned off the torch, and tried again to sleep.

There it was again. Longer, louder, more deliberate.

In a flash she was sat up, flashlight brandished in front of her with unsteady hands. There were now four knives in the block, and one more resting on the countertop, still quivering where it had been set down.

Darcy stood on trembling legs and edged around the coffee table.

“Okay,” she called, “I’m guessing that’s your kinda passive-aggressive way of telling me to get out. So, um, yeah I’m going to go so you don’t stab me. Whatever you are. I didn’t think I believed in ghosts but um” her voice sounded odd to her, high and strained, and given the large size of the room it didn’t seem to be echoing right, like something was dampening the sound around her. “Bye,” she squeaked.

She grabbed her towel, her backpack, and scarpered from the living room. She was almost to the door when she remembered her clothes, dripping in the shower. Torn, she hesitated; she couldn’t afford to buy another new set of clothes – especially the bra, that was nearly new. Throwing caution to the wind she darted into the bathroom, tearing her clothes from the rail and sprinting for the door.

Emerging from the bathroom, she thought she saw a tall dark figure stood in the archway from the living room, poisonous green eyes glinting from the darkness. She didn’t dare stop to check if it was real or only her imagination – didn’t want to know. Sobbing with terror, she ran out into the rain and the door slammed itself closed behind her.

* * *

Transporting instantly back up to his bedroom window, Loki watched her stumble away, bare feet splashing in the muddy puddles.

How dare she.

Bad enough that his mother had him banished here following the debacle with Thor and the Destroyer; bad enough that he could use his magic only so long as he remained in the boundaries of this pathetic building; bad enough that she had given him no real guidance on when he might return home. Was he really expected to put up with filthy, invading mortals too? Waltzing into _his_ prison like she owned the damn place.

He seethed.

At least he hadn’t killed her. It had been tempting. Especially when she had had the gall to deviate from her flight to invade his bathroom _again_. He had hefted one of the kitchen knives in his hand, one twitch away from embedding it in her spine. The only reason he didn’t was that he knew that to do so would surely spell the end of his mother’s mercy. He had settled for burying it in the wood of the door that swung shut on her fleeing form.

She slipped and fell, dropping her belongings in a puddle. Rather than get up immediately, she collapsed to the ground, shoulders heaving. He felt a flicker of something then, but quashed it with a chuckle at her misfortune, pushing it away before he could identify it as guilt.

Too late. Damn.

Ah well, it did not matter, she would not be back.

But she was.

Almost a month later, Loki was working in his library, lights on when the front door slammed open.

He really should remember to lock it.

“OK then ghost. I’m coming in and I don’t give a damn about your fucking knives.”

The girl. Her voice was… odd. The last time he’d heard her speak, it had been… well, first open and easy, all clearly spoken words and rambling; then tight with pure fear.

This time, there were… layers. Anger and determination lent her words strength but underneath it, she shook. Not the simple, quick tremors of fury but something deeper. She was scared, and not of him. Shaken up by something else, whatever it was bad enough to push her back to this house.

He stood invisible in the door to his library and watched her as, seeing no response she stopped hesitating in the entrance and strode past him into the living room. Her shirt was torn down the middle, hair tangled beyond simple neglect. There was a bruise darkening on her cheek and grazes on the heels of her hands. She pulled off her jacket and he saw another bruise wrapping around the top of her arm.

And then there was her muttering.

“Three damn weeks I’ve been dodging them. Thought I was getting away with it too but no… least I got away. Thank fuck… Not just another statistic…” She raised her voice. “Look, I’m sleeping here tonight. If you kill me, that sucks but…” She shuddered, drawing into herself. “I can’t go back out there.” Her voice was small.

He said nothing. He would allow her this night. How could he ever look his mother in the eye again if he turned her out to that? Some things were worse than death.

She began to peel herself out of her ruined clothes, and he turned away, transporting himself back to his chair and flicking absently through a book. The shirt she wore now was the same as the one she had worn when he had chased her out last time – it still had muddy splashes around the hem, and did not look as though it had been washed. She herself seemed… tired. Her hair was a mess – snarled into tangles from her attack yes, but greasy beneath that, and fraying at the ends as though it had not been cut for a long time.

And she spoke of running.

Did she not _have_ a home?

He recalled, suddenly her excitement over his electricity, over the running water – she had told him then that she had not had a shower in two weeks… could it really have been even longer this time?

Silently, he stole out of his study and stood in the hall to watch her. She had dressed, he was relieved to see. Although these clothes looked even filthier than the previous ones, they were at least whole. She was sitting on the couch facing away from him with her legs tucked in front of her, rubbing absently at her injured arm and staring at nothing. He was about to label her boring and return to his books once more when something in her posture snapped, and she slumped in on herself, sobbing brokenly.

He was suddenly trapped. It felt somehow cruel to be watching such a private expression of misery, yet he could not look away from this wretched display. Her cries continued, ugly sniffs and gasps emerging from the small ball her body had curled into, leant against the back cushions of the couch.

Loki did not know how long he stood there, staring. Eventually, the girl’s sobs died down to sniffles, and she nestled down into the cushions, pulling her own towel over her body for warmth. Still he watched, until her breathing had evened out completely into sleep. The half-acknowledged guilt from forcing her out so abruptly on her last visit returned, and he felt compelled to do something, to show somehow that this time he would allow her sanctuary.

He turned away, and finally returned to his studies, green flames leaping up in the fireplace behind him.

* * *

Darcy woke up with the sun, as was her habit these days. She blinked in confusion for a moment, unsure where she was, before suddenly jerking upright, her heart leaping in her chest when she remembered. She had come back to the creepy murder house! And… she checked herself quickly. Nope, no knives sticking out of her.

“Oh thank God!” She whispered to herself. In the fireplace, a few embers were dying down in the grate. They seemed to flicker green in acknowledgement of her words, drawing her attention to the oddly coloured glow.

“Huh.” She tilted her head, eyes narrowed. This house had a habit of messing with her, and she hadn’t exactly been paying attention last night, but she was sure there had been no fire. She briefly entertained the idea that it was a sign that, this time, she was welcome, but dismissed it. Vengeful ghosts did not go from ominous knife waving to ‘pull up a seat by the fire my dear’ just because you got roughed up a little.

She thought longingly of the shower, of washing the memory of their hands away from her skin, but just because she hadn’t been stabbed yet didn’t mean she should go overstaying her welcome. Reluctantly, she packed away her belongings back into her bag, and left, calling her thanks over her shoulder.

* * *

She did not use the shower this time. She had simply woken and gone, with nothing more than a ‘thanks for not murdering me in my sleep.’

Did she not wish to be clean? Perhaps she simply did prefer to be filthy. But no, that was ridiculous. Any being would wish to clean themselves after unwelcome advances, surely? So why would she go? She hadn’t exactly hesitated last time.

Oh.

Last time. Yes, that would do it. He supposed she was probably too afraid.

There it was again, that cursed twist of his guts. She was a damn mortal, and a smelly one at that. Why would he feel pity for some unclean scrap of a drifter who had now twice invaded his home?

Although.

She had seemed so deeply unhappy. Surely she could not be so miserable in a lifestyle she had chosen? Was it forced upon her then, this drifting? What could she have done so awful that her family would not take her back? She had looked so innocent in her fitful sleep. Surely such a face could not have committed crimes beyond his own – such terrible crimes as to eclipse even a mother’s forgiveness?

He transported himself to the living room and looked at the couch, still dented from the weight of her sleeping form. Something was there that hadn’t been before… there! Pushed under the couch was a small navy box. He slid it out and lifted the lid, to find it full of small, rectangular slips of paper. Pulling out a handful, he peered at them with interest. They identified themselves as dollars, and had numbers on them with values ranging mostly from 1 to 20, though, sifting through them he found one with 100 in place of the smaller numbers.

That she was squirrelling them away in his house suggested two things. Firstly, that they were currency, and secondly, that she would return.

And she did. Periodically, at irregular intervals he would hear her light tread in his hall, always calling out a nervous apology as she entered. Sometimes she put more of the paper slips into the box, but mostly she was taking some out, counting what remained with a tight, unhappy expression.

She started talking him through what the money was from, or being used for each time – sometimes, she’d near-dance through the door with a smile on her face exclaiming she’d found work for a few weeks; sometimes she’d rage against the ‘entitled rich-boy wanker’ who’d suggested she ‘just try getting a job,’ and sanctimoniously tucked ‘one measly buck’ (whatever that was) into the front pocket of her shirt; sometimes, she told him how she’d finally worn a hole she couldn’t fix with duct tape in her boots and had to shell out for new ones.

On one memorable occasion she had announced the onset of her menses, stated her withdrawal of funds this time was to buy ‘tampons,’ and loudly wondered if he might actually be a female ghost, and asked aimless questions about how ‘she’ had handled ‘her’ time of the month, back when ‘she’ was alive.

Despite himself, he began to enjoy her visits – the dry way she talked to the ‘ghost’ thanking him each time for not murdering her brutally yet probably helped with that. She took to pulling faces on her way out the door, crowing that she had ‘escaped’ the ghost and thumbing her nose with fingers wiggling. She only did that when she had put money into her box, when she was happier. It was amusing, and once he even allowed her to hear him chuckle, but she went white at the sound, fled immediately and stopped coming for nearly three months after that, so he didn’t do it again.

Then, New York was hit by a snowstorm. He watched the snow pile up around the windows and wondered why she had not yet come seeking sanctuary. Perhaps she had found somewhere else – he was oddly reluctant to entertain the possibility that her she might be frozen and buried somewhere beneath the drifts. He kept the fire burning in his living room near constantly, despite the fact that he only rarely ventured downstairs to see it. It wasn’t that he worried, wasn’t that he wanted it to be ready for her should she arrive at his door. No, it was only sensible to keep the house warm, that was all.

* * *

The tent just wasn’t cutting it anymore. She had splashed out on a new one, and even gone wild with a winter sleeping bag _and_ a liner. The sleeping bag was purple too, which was awesome.

But not enough. After the fourth morning of waking up with her fingers and toes so cold she could barely get out of her tent, she gave up. Her skin had now begun to blister from warming up only to get cold again, and she was starting to develop a wheeze that occasionally erupted into painful, hacking coughs. She packed up her belongings as best as she could with numb hands wrapped in three layers of gloves, and began to walk.

The pathway to the ghost house was choked with snow, lying in drifts with some as high as her waist. Of course, no-one had bothered to plough or shovel it. She put her pack down and grabbed some rope from the top pocket, tying the bag together with her tent and sleeping bag. Pulling them behind her, she sank her boots into the snow, and began to slog her way through it.

Within ten minutes, she knew that this was a push too far. Every step she took sent her plunging into the drifts, sometimes taking almost a minute to free herself for the next step. Exhaustion weighed her down and she fell more than once. Eventually, she decided she would have to abandon her pack and tent. Pausing, the breath she tried to catch rattled painfully in her chest. She buried the tent and her bag under a thin layer of snow, piling on just enough that they hopefully wouldn’t be visible from the sidewalk. Even without the extra weight, her limbs felt too heavy to move. Before long, she fell again and this time she simply couldn’t co-ordinate her legs enough to get them beneath her and push up again… she managed to half-slide half-crawl another few metres through the snow, dragging her sleeping bag stubbornly with her. Finally, the house was in sight. To see how close her goal was gave her enough of a boost to lurch to her feet and stumble a few more painful steps through the snow, but then, just as suddenly as her energy had arrived, it was gone.

Dimly, she thought she saw a figure watching her from the upstairs window, hands pressed against the glass. She slumped forwards and landed face first in the cold, white snow, vision fading rapidly to grey. With the last of her strength she lifted her head, just to see how close she’d got. There was a man crouched in front of her. His eyes bored into hers, vibrant green bleeding slowly to red.

* * *

Since when had he been able to _sense_ her?

And yet, there she was, at the edge of his awareness. He couldn’t see her yet, but he could feel her making slow progress up the path towards his house. He moved to kneel on his window seat, looking through the foggy glass for her approach. Finally, she came into view around the bend, but something was definitely wrong: She was barely moving, and she did not have her pack, only a small cylinder he assumed must be her bivouac. It did not look like something that would be much use against the vicious cold outside. Unconsciously his palms came to rest against the cold window as he mentally urged her on. She looked up at the house, seemed to focus straight on him. What little of her face she had exposed twisted in a grimace as she surged forwards, and he briefly thought it might be enough.

Then, her face went slack, she fell forwards into the snow and moved no more.

Without stopping to think about it, he transported himself to her. Too late he realised that since this meant leaving the confines of his house, his magic would drain the second he reappeared in front of her. Without the power there to hold the spell, up to his knees in ice and snow, he felt his illusions fall; the beast was out. The girl looked up hazily, eyes narrowing in confusion as she struggled to focus on his changing face.

He gathered her in his arms and set out for the house, pushing through the snow with far more ease than her exhausted muscles had achieved. She felt small in his arms – even through the thick layers of clothing she wore, he could feel that she was little more than skin and bone. She was breathing still, but each inhalation was shallow, and rattled unpleasantly in her chest. She should have come sooner.

He reached the house at last, and pushed open the door. His magic rushed back as soon as he crossed the threshold and he sighed with relief. Warmth bled through his skin as he felt the monster retreating, covered again by his magic.

The girl was shivering sporadically in his arms, and, although he wasn’t sure how far the crossover between Aesir and Human stretched, he was fairly sure that was a good thing – if her body had not yet entirely given up trying to warm itself, she could not be too deep in the grip of cold-shock.

Now came the ethical dilemma. Her clothes were soaked, and she would warm far better without them to chill her. However, her bag was lost, and how would she react knowing someone she believed to be a ‘potentially homicidal ghost’ (her words) had seen her bare?

She shivered again, weaker this time, and murmured something incoherent. Mind made up, he deposited her gently on the couch, further away from the fire for now so as not to warm her faster than her body could handle.

Awkwardly, taking care not to touch any more of her skin than necessary he peeled away the sodden, cold layers of her clothing. Her underwear, too presented a conundrum. In the end, he opted to remove her chest binding, as besides being just as cold and damp as the rest of her clothing, it was possible that it would constrict her breathing. He covered her chest with one of the couch cushions to preserve her modesty and slid the binding from beneath it. He couldn’t bring himself to remove her panties though, no matter how he tried to frame it, so he left those in place. Summoning one of his own tunics he slid it over her head, then worked a pair of leggings up her thighs.

She was semi-conscious, eyes occasionally fluttering open and staring around the room. She clearly had no idea who he was or what he was doing, but kept trying to move to help him. Since she was still extremely un-co-ordinated this made it slow going getting her dressed. It took several minutes to pull the leggings on to her – at least three times, he would pull one leg up only to discover she had somehow kicked her way out of the other. As a final touch, he pulled a pair of thick socks over her swollen feet and held out his hand for a towel from the bathroom to fly into, wrapping it around her head in place of her hat.

This done, he left her to regain consciousness on her own, checking periodically to be sure she was not turning for the worse. She lay helpless, sat partially upright leaning against the cushions, drifting in and out of lucidity for longer than he expected. 5 hours later she was a little better, but alarmed him briefly when her head suddenly slumped forward.  He thought for a minute that she might have died, but was reassured when he heard her quiet, rasping snores.

Extrapolating her painfully slow rate of recovery thus far, he compared it to an Aesir recovery span for it seemed to move in similar steps. He guessed it would take at least a few days before she was fully recovered. Obviously, having gone to the effort of getting her in from the snow and the embarrassment of undressing a beautiful woman _without_ allowing himself to notice her beauty (much) he would not waste it by throwing her back out to die, but she would be too weak to look after herself… how was he to maintain his privacy whilst allowing her to stay, whilst helping her to heal?

What now?

* * *

Darcy woke up feeling like someone had spent the night stuffing cotton wool into her brain through her nose: Everything hurt.

Groaning, she rolled over, and fell to the ground with a yelp.

What? Where was her sleeping bag? And why was the ground made out something so damn solid? No wonder she felt like crap, had she slept on a park bench or something? Her questing hands met with something soft, and suddenly everything came rushing back to her.

The snow.

The cold.

Falling.

The eyes – green and red like Christmas.

Had she dreamed it? No, she couldn’t have, she was dressed now in something soft, and far too big for her. She didn’t remember changing, or indeed where the clothes had come from, which could only mean…

“Hey,” She began, voice coming out as little more than a rasp. She cleared her throat painfully, scrambled back onto the couch and tried again. “Um, hey ghost? Are you even a ghost? There was a guy, I think… but then again, he came from nowhere and then turned blue so I guess maybe it was a hallucination? Anyways, ghost, for now… if, um, if it was you, who helped me and stuff then, um, thank you?”

No response, of course. She sat back in the cushions, edging herself closer to the fire to feel its heat sinking into her bones. Maybe she was still hallucinating because the flames were undeniably green.

As was the weird tunic she seemed to be wearing now – definitely not something she’d brought in with her – not that she’d managed to bring much with her, in the end. She took a moment to wonder if her bag and tent were still out there in the snow. Either way though,

“Ghost? Did you dress me? Cos, y’know, if you did, thanks for the nice snuggly dress thing – though I guess for someone bigger it’s more like a top... But you know,” she bit her lip, not sure if teasing was a good idea. “If you did, I’m gonna have to update your title from ‘Potentially Homicidal Ghost’ to ‘Pervy Homicidal Ghost.’ PHG for short. Like the BFG – Big Friendly Giant. I dunno though, maybe you weren’t around for that… how long ago did that book come out? This house can’t be that old…”

She flopped on the sofa, occasionally calling out to her presumed rescuer, narrating whatever was running through her head. After a while, she got bored.

“Hey, PHG? Can I… like, I’m not gonna get stabbed if I get off the couch am I? I’m… kinda not sure what to do with myself right now.”

There was no reply, but the light in the bathroom clicked itself on.

“Oh, sweet. A shower sounds amazing, thanks!” Darcy threw herself off the couch, stumbling slightly before she regained her balance. She grabbed the towel that had been folded around her head and pulled it along with her, talking as she went. “Right, listen up my pervy friend. No peeking, OK?” She pushed the door closed with a wink at nothing in particular.

* * *

Loki stared at the closed door, completely mystified.

She called him her friend, and yet, was she insulting him? Implying he would take advantage of her need for cleanliness to spy on her naked form. Was that what this word, pervy meant?

Wait.

Pervy. Perv… had she called him a pervert?! He felt suddenly flush with anger, heard her yelp as the lights flickered in the bathroom again. The water shut off and then she was there at the door, wrapped in a towel. She looked afraid again.

“Um, dude. Last time you shut the lights off the next step was to start waving knives around. You’re not gonna do that again are you? I’m sorry I called you a pervert, I was just teasing you – I know you were only helping me out. So um… do I need to scream and run?”

She waited, looking around nervously.

“OK, well I don’t see any sharp things hovering ‘round the corners so I’m gonna assume I can keep showering…”

He waited until she had shut the door before he allowed himself a soft snort of amusement.

* * *

Back in the shower, Darcy scrubbed her fingers through her hair, cursing the lack of toiletries.

Still, the water this time was warm. She had a feeling that cold water would not be much good for her at the moment, but too hot felt like needles against her clammy skin. The rhythmic drumming against her tired muscles was soothing: it helped her think.

She was sure there had been a man there, before she had fainted, and vaguely recalled a deep, male voice cursing whilst foreign hands tried to manoeuvre her legs into those thick legging-type things.

Perhaps that was the ghost then – and apparently he was a touchy fellow. No surprise given he had threatened her with a knife the first time. Hopefully she wouldn’t emerge to find herself tossed back out into the snow.

She put the same over-large tunic and leggings on again, feeling like a child the way they swamped her. Still, they were soft and oh-so-warm – so long as she didn’t question too much where they had come from.

If this ‘ghost’ was a man, and was capable of appearing physically, then why wasn’t he? She could think of several reasons – ranging from the ridiculous (he could only stay visible whilst swearing), to the ridiculously over-dramatic (he’d done something terrible when he was alive and didn’t want to be recognised), to the utterly mundane (he was just anti-social). Still, whichever it was it didn’t look like she’d be getting answers anytime soon.

Her stomach rumbled.

It had been a long time since she’d had a decent meal – probably part of the reason she’d been so quick to faint yesterday – or at least, she thought it was only yesterday…

A new purpose in mind, she set out to find her winter clothes.

They had been left in a damp heap on the floor by the couch. She picked them up and spread them near the fire, staring at them unsatisfied, before heading to the kitchen, grabbing the two lonely chairs she found there and pulling them over to the fire. She surprised herself with the lack of strength the felt in her arms – she had always pictured herself as sturdier. Then again, months of limited food followed by a bout of hypothermia would take it out of a girl. Laying her clothes over the chairs as a makeshift drying rack, she went to boldly explore the kitchen whilst she waited for them to dry: The heat from the fireplace was enough to send prickles lancing through her fingers, so she was sure it would not take long.

* * *

She was moving his furniture. Had she no fear? Well, he knew she did because he had frightened her more times than he could be bothered to count (five), but she seemed awfully selective regarding when she deigned to listen to that fear.

Now she was rifling through the cupboards of his kitchen! Opening and shutting them rapidly, muttering nonsense words like ‘c’mon’ and ‘twinkie’ under her breath. She reached the cooling chest at the end of the counters, pulled open the doors at the top and bottom and then stepped back, sighing defeatedly.

“Hey Ghost, you don’t have any food anywhere do you?”

Ah. Yes, mortals needed real food.

Once his mother had made it clear that he would not be receiving meals, that he would be expected to _leave_ his prison to buy food in the mortal world, Loki in turn had insisted on cramming as many non-perishable field energy-rations into one of his magical storage spaces as he could get hold of. Provided he used them sparingly, the supplies had the potential to last him another month or so yet before he would have to brave the streets… but he did not want to share them with the mortal. For starters, he had no idea what they would do to her. Inter-realm biology was not his field.

The girl had now moved back over to the fire, wincing at the heat and probing at the clothes, turning them over here and there before she eventually seemed satisfied. Nodding to herself, she stripped off and began pulling the clothes on, adding the tunic and leggings he had dressed her in to the build-up of layers.

“This gives me like, four layers instead of just three. I’ll be totally snug.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself. “Besides,” she continued as she bent down and pulled some of her dollars out of her box, “it’s not like I’m going to spend so long in it this time, and it’ll be way easier to get up and down the drive…” She picked up her boots and walked out into the hallway. Loki trailed behind her, realisation slowly dawning that she intended to go back out into the snow.

Well that was an imbecilic idea almost worthy of Thor.

* * *

Darcy was tying her shoelaces, trying to convince herself she was not being a total idiot going back outside into the cold whilst starving hungry, and with lingering hypothermia. It wasn’t as though she had much choice – if she didn’t go, she would starve to death for sure.

She was done with her laces, and about to scramble to her feet, when the lock on the door twisted shut, security bolt sliding decisively into place.

“Hey!” she cried, lunging for the door. Neither lock budged. “So what, you’re not letting me out now?”

No reply. She turned, intending to run through the living room and out of the back door, but there was a heavy scraping sound, and poking her head back into the living room to check revealed the large fridge-freezer had dragged itself across the floor to block the back door, gouges left in the wooden floor in its wake. She returned to the hallway, tried the door again, but it was no good. Something held it fast.

“Please!”

Nothing.

“Oh come on. I’m coming back! I just need to go out to get food.” She paused, but the door stayed stubbornly locked. “I don’t even have my own change of clothes! Not even panties. Please, My bag’s right out there in the drive, under the snow, I just need to get it…”

The hallway was silent.

* * *

“So what, I’m your prisoner now?” Her words trembled, and Loki didn’t hide his snort of disdain for the idea. She flinched.

“Please?” She begged, “Look, I just need some food.” She held up the dollars she had grasped in one fist. “See, that’s not enough to live on, I’ll be back. Just a few cans of soup or like, bread or something. If you don’t let me eat I’ll die.”

Frustration bubbled up in his gut and he allowed the monster closer to the surface. The temperature of the hallway dropped sharply until the girl’s breath came in icy puffs, and she shivered violently despite her layers of clothing.

“Yeah I know.” She spat, “It’s cold outside, I know. But I’d only be out for an hour or so, and I’d rather risk it than sit here waiting to die of hunger.”

He found himself suddenly decided. With a thought, he was dressed in warm, mortal clothing of the kind his Mother had stocked the house with. He did not want the monster to appear in public, so he added a thick overcoat, just in case. Still invisible to her he plucked the paper slips out of her hand and she gasped, staggering backwards.

He turned and allowed her to hear his footfalls towards the door, opening it, sliding through and slamming it closed before she had a chance to follow him. The locks slid back into place and he made sure they would not move with a shot of magic he hoped would last through his departure.

Her hands scrabbled uselessly against the door behind him, and her scream of frustration sank into something that sounded more like a sob.

He pretended not to hear.

* * *

Darcy shouted, and slammed her hands uselessly against the glass, pulling at the locks with all her strength. She rested her hands against the cold glass, and thunked her head against it, staring through the frosted glass at the hazy silhouettes of the snow and trees beyond the porch.

Quite suddenly, another shape joined the hazy scene, there at the bottom of the steps. It looked like a man – tall and dark, striding out into the snow. The Ghost.

She whirled around the house, trying every window to see if she could get out that way – all of them refused to open, and when she tried to break one, the chair she swung just bounced right back and broke a lamp instead.

She gave up after that, stripped back down to the comfy tunic and leggings, grabbed a pillow and threw herself down by the fire. She stared at the flickering emerald flames, and started humming ‘Tale as Old as Time.’ It seemed appropriate: She was trapped in a magical castle (house) with objects that moved by themselves, and a moody, antisocial beast (ghost)… and she couldn’t leave. Not likely this was going to become some great love story though… she giggled at the idea, and somehow the giggles morphed into sobs. She lay there, feeling pathetic and helpless and sorry for herself, until finally the flames lulled her into a fitful sleep.

She woke to the sound of the front door crashing violently against the wall.

* * *

Was it shameful, Loki wondered, to admit that he was feeling a little overwhelmed?

The thing about humans, was there were just so _many_ of them. Asgard could be busy, it was true, but he was a prince so crowds would part before him – not press in on him on all sides like these seemed to be doing.

With relief, he spotted somewhere that looked like it might stock foodstuffs: a small store tucked under yet another high-rise building. He practically threw himself through the door, and was about to sigh with relief when he looked up, and the air caught in his throat. There was food _everywhere_. Where was he supposed to find appropriate fare for one unwell mortal amidst all this?

He wandered helplessly down the aisles, staring between the confusing labels on the foods and the slips of paper in his hand. He would not be able to buy a lot with this, so he didn’t have much margin for error…

Soup, she had said. He scanned the aisle he was currently stood in for soup. Finding none, he tried the next. Still no soup, but he did pick up an oddly shaped cardboard carton that contained eggs. Then, something that claimed to be bread, and from a shelf that was somehow colder than the rest of the shop, thinly sliced meat. Now, at the worst she would have a sandwich, or could fry herself eggs.

Aha! Soup! Almost impossible to spot given how it was crammed into the shelves amidst hundreds of other canned goods. He selected three different cans that looked the least disgusting and tried to work out how much of the currency he had left to spend. Not much – perhaps another 2-and-a-bit of the dollars. Did they even work in fractions? He supposed they must do, if the prices around him were any indication.

He added a bottle of milk to the precariously balanced pile of goods in his arms, and headed to the counter.

The woman behind the counter was chirpy and irritating, the smile on her face on obvious lie as she ran each item over a machine that beeped and flashed numbers at him, packing them into a flimsy paper bag.

“That’ll be nineteen dollars and thirty-five cents, Sir.” She said, looking at him expectantly.

Silently, Loki handed over the currency he had taken from the girl. He tensed a moment, waiting for the merchant to tell him he’d gotten it wrong somehow. Fortunately, she just took the money and pushed it into a rattling box that sprang from beneath the machine, swiping a few small coins into her hand from recessed pockets.

“That’s sixty-five cents change, Sir. Have a lovely day.”

Loki didn’t quite manage to restrain his sneer as he turned away from the counter and left the shop. He wasn’t far down the road when he suddenly became aware of a small, robotic creature following him from the air. He caught its reflection in the window of a passing car; it did not appear to be armed. He maintained his pace, but immediately began working over plans in his mind: It would seem the mortals were no longer unaware of his presence on Earth.

* * *

“Mr Stark,” a cool voice came over the speakers.

“Not now Jarvis, Daddy’s working.” Came the reply from under one of several cars in the workshop.

“It is a matter of some urgency, Sir.”

“Yes, and so is this car’s exhaust. It’s been making that weird sort of, shaky noise for weeks now. Can’t believe I let Pepper talk me into that board meeting instead of sorting it out…” he carried on rambling, but was interrupted by the AI.

“Sir, it concerns a visual tracking algorithm SHIELD placed on a potential threat known as Prince Loki Odinson, following the New Mexico attack.”

“What?” Tony scrambled out from under the car, banging his head once and his elbow twice in the process. “That’s the one with the awesome metal giant they think I don’t know about, isn’t it? There’s been a hit?”

“Yes, Sir. I have displayed the images on your nearest holo-surface.”

Tony looked. The clip showed a man with dark hair and piercing green eyes stood in the entrance to a small shop, looking warily around him.  A second clip showed him frowning irately at the cashier as he accepted his change. Not threatening exactly, but certainly disconcerting.

“Gimme maps, Jarv, where is he?”

“He appears to be in a convenience on the west side of Central Park, Sir.”

“Right. Get one of the drones out, I want eyes on him, now.”

“Yes, Sir. A drone has been dispatched. Shall I alert the SHIELD that you are investigating?”

“No. Then they’d know I know about the giant robot, and they’d never let me near him in case I ‘get ideas’ or something. Get my suit ready though, and I want live feed from the camera patched through to my display.”

“Very well, Mr Stark. The Mark forty-four is ready on the flight pad.”

“You’re the best, bud.”

He took the elevator up to the roof, the armour sliding onto him as soon as he stepped out onto the pads, camera feed flickering up on his display. He decided to wait a moment before he followed the drone. Perhaps if this Loki guy didn’t know he was being followed he would learn something important.

Then, he saw the god’s eyes flicker to the drone, only for a fraction of a second as a car drove by.

“He’s spotted us, Jarvis. Prepare for defensive manoeuvres.”

“Wing flaps on the drone have been moved into evasive configuration, Sir.”

But there was no need. Loki just continued to walk, occasionally crossing the street to avoid the more crowded sidewalks. He meandered around the city seemingly aimlessly, circling around a block then pausing at the intersection to consider and randomly choosing a direction that took him back towards the South end of the park. After about five more minutes of uneventful walking, he – impulsively, so far as Tony could tell –turned down a side road Tony swore he had never seen before, heading inside the boundary of Central Park.

He meandered along the path, tripping at one point and stopping to dig around in the snow, withdrawing a large backpack and what looked like a tent. With a shrug, he slung them effortlessly over his back he continued right up to the front steps of a large, abandoned looking house.

The second his foot touched the step, he seemed to straighten, bearing suddenly far more assured – he hadn’t seemed dangerous before, but now he turned to face the drone, a malicious smirk on his face.

He lifted his thumb to his nose, waved his fingers with his tongue out, and disappeared. Next second, the drone’s feed cut out. Tony swore.

“Shit. Jarvis, how long for me to get there?”

“A direct flight at your inner-city speed limitations will take approximately three minutes, Sir.”

Two minutes and fifteen seconds later, Tony landed about twenty metres away from the mysterious house. He had checked the maps on his way over: There was no record of this house’s existence. He approached on foot, glowing palms raised defensively. The vines strung over the door from the hugely overgrown climbing hydrangea showed signs of being disturbed, a clear indication that someone had recently entered the house. He tried the front door and found it locked, but that was little deterrent.

Stepping back a little, he lifted a leg and put all the power of his suit behind the kick. The door flew open, bouncing off the wall with a loud bang that was quickly followed by a very feminine sounding scream.

* * *

What the hell was Iron Man doing in this house? Darcy scrambled to her feet and tried to clamp down on the coughing that had gripped her following her scream.

“Iron Man? What the hell? Is… ah… is this your house or something?” She wheezed, looking nervously around.

The fridge was back where it belonged. Huh, how about that?

“No. Is it yours?” He asked back, voice tinny through the speakers. “Cos I gotta say, you could do with a bit of spring cleaning…”

“Um…” she could lie, perhaps.

“Yeah, I’m going to take that as a no.”

“OK. So uh, why…?”

“Why am I here? You don’t think I’d just pay a visit? House call from your friendly neighbourhood Iron Man.” His faceplate popped up, and suddenly she was staring Tony Stark in the face.

“Woah, you’re actually Tony Stark.” She couldn’t help saying. He looked at her with a smirk.

“Yes, I am Iron Man. Did you miss that press conference or something? It was quite a big deal, I’m told, cameras following me for months… oh no wait they always did that…”

She ignored his sarcasm. “Damn I wish I still had my phone, I’d totally take a picture. Shit, actually, I haven’t updated my Facebook in like, months, people probably think I’m dead or something.” She was rambling – trying to cover up her nervousness. “So um,”

“Oh yeah, right. Well, if you don’t own this place, why are you here?”

“Um… I’m kinda squatting.” She admitted. “I found it a while back, it seemed abandoned and well, the cold out wasn’t agreeing with me so I’ve been sleeping on the couch here.”

“Huh. Homeless, I would not have called that. So what, you run away from home cos Daddy cut off your credit cards, or something?” She wanted to throw something at him in that moment, and she was sure it showed on her face because he grimaced, and changed the subject. “Well, mind if I look around?”

“Sure…” His faceplate had slid back down, and he started for the stairs before she had even begun to reply. Darcy was tempted to follow him, having never quite been brave enough to head up the stairs herself, but refrained. Instead, she looked around and fretted.

Why was he here? Was this to do with the ghost?

He was back down in moments, poking around the rest of the downstairs. This time she did follow him, trailing round after him and wincing when his armour scraped against the doorframes and furniture.

“You know,” he commented whilst poking through the kitchen, faceplate up again, “there’s two perfectly good bedrooms upstairs, why not use one of them for your squatter needs?”

“Well, um…” Darcy floundered a moment. She couldn’t exactly admit she hadn’t dared explore upstairs or he would want to know why. The back door banged in a draft, interrupting her thoughts and giving her an idea. “The back door. You know, I wasn’t totally sure this place was abandoned so I prefer to sleep downstairs. That way, if anyone comes home or um…” her eyes slid to the open front door “breaks in, I can get out pronto.”

“Sounds fair.” Darcy imagined that if Stark didn’t have the armour restricting his movement, he would be shrugging.

“You’re uh, not gonna call the police are you?” She asked nervously, hating how small her voice sounded in that moment. He turned to consider her across the room, face softening.

“Nah, you’re not hurting anyone. One thing though. Anyone else been hanging around here? Tall, dark hair, kinda psycho – only, one of my drones was tracking a potential hostile and he disappeared right in front of the house.”

“Oh. Well, uh, that’s kinda freaky. But no, I’ve not seen him. Do… um, do you think he’ll come back?” It wasn’t difficult to sound scared of the idea – if her Ghost was one of the bad guys, she could be in trouble.

He looked at her closely, eyes narrowed. “OK. I don’t know, but I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Yeah, sure I’ll do that too.”

He made to leave, but turned just before he got to the door, making her skitter back a few steps in surprise.

“Hey, I get that you’re just squatting and all, but where’d you get those clothes? They look expensive – and a bit big on you. Not really the in style at the moment. All in all, not your best look. Sort of, almost a bit Asgardian style.”

Darcy bristled. “Ass-what? Mr Stark, I haven’t been able to care about what I look like for a long time. I take what I can get and these are damn warm. So if you’re just gonna insult my clothes I think we’re done here.”

He held his hands up in surrender and backed out the door, “Sorry. Just asking.” It might just have been the modulators in his mask but something in his tone sounded off. “Keep an eye out for any wandering supervillains.” With that, he activated his repulsors, and soared off.

With a sigh of relief, she headed back inside. The broken lamp was gone. Her bag and tent were now resting on the sofa, and a hot bowl of soup was sitting on the kitchen table, steam rising gently from its surface.

“Oh my god yes,” Darcy rushed over and picked up the bowl, cradling it in her arms so the warmth sank into her chest. She had questions – so many they all tumbled around in her brain fighting to get out… but for now, they could wait. “Thanks, PHG.”

* * *

The girl ended up staying for a while. They got used to each other. For the first week, until her illness passed he stole from her money stash and went out himself to provide her with food – she even furnished him with a shopping list, after a fashion, writing down items she wanted on slips of paper torn from a tatty notepad and leaving them lying around the house ready to unobtrusively disappear.

He only had to shop once more to last them that time, going out with a few more of her dollars and a hat covering his face. The girl thanked him exuberantly when her requests appeared in the kitchen at random times of day. She seemed to have accepted that she herself was not yet well enough to go out – though perhaps the fainting spell in the living room after a particularly violent coughing fit had more to do with that than his unspoken refusal to allow it.

Eventually though, her illness was gone. She breathed more easily and her skin finally held some colour other than bloodless white or feverish red. She dressed to go outdoors one day and marched out of the house, her face stern with shoulders set in a determined line. Loki only watched her go, no longer able to justify stopping her without truly making her his prisoner.

He found, to his surprise, that he missed the excuse to go outside. His pride would not allow him to willingly step away from the house and desert his magic without at least a valid pretence of necessity. Still, at least the girl clearly intended to return; She had left her under-things dripping in his shower that morning.

About a week after she began going outside again, the girl came tripping back through the door one evening waving a slim sheaf of papers above her head, a paper bag clutched in the other, equally animated hand.

“Hey, PHG, guess what!” She bounced on the spot, almost vibrating in a manner he had come to recognise as her way of physically expressing happiness. “I got a job!” She kicked off her boots, and danced down the hall towards the kitchen. “A real job too, with an application form and regular hours and everything. I’m going to be a coffee shop waitress!” She smacked the paper gleefully down on the kitchen table and moved away to the couch, stripping off her warm layers and dumping them beside her bag. This also, conveniently gave Loki the opportunity to invisibly lean over and read the header on the papers, which appeared to be forms and shift details for the new job. He had the disconcerting feeling that the opportunity had been intentionally allowed for by the girl, moving herself around him even as she professed to be yet uncertain of his existence.

The name of the place was stamped across the top, professing itself a friendly local coffee shop. However, what really caught his attention the personal information filled in below. There was a name, Darcy Katherine Lewis, and more importantly, an address. So, she _did_ have a home!

* * *

Darcy couldn’t stop shaking. It was a good kind of shake though. The kind where, she thought, hoped, dreamed that maybe her life might be about to turn around. Something good had happened, something she hadn’t had to fight tooth and nail to get. The coffee shop was one she frequented, as it had a ‘pay forward’ scheme where customers could buy extra drinks to be put on a tab for those who couldn’t afford their own. Darcy had taken advantage of that scheme before, though she tried not to do so too often – when she was in work, or had more money to spare than usual she would pay for her own drink so someone needier could use the paid forward tab. The owner had praised her selflessness the first time she’d done this, and they’d struck up a sort of friendship. Sally had always hinted that should she get an address at least fixed enough to put on an application form, there might be a job around for Darcy.

Walking into the shop that morning, Darcy had hesitated, then taken the plunge.

“So yeah,” she called out as she walked back into the living room, addressing herself to the ghost she was fairly sure would be nosying at her application form right now, “you might have spotted I put your address on there. Um, I hope that’s OK. I needed an address to give them and, well, I don’t think anyone will look too deeply into it… I did bring you a muffin from their end of day leftovers as a ‘please forgive me for using your address even though I’m pretty much just a stray’ gift. I don’t actually need to stay or anything, I can just pop in like I have been to see if I have mail. Count the muffin as rent for the time I’ve been here so far.” She waved at the bag on the table. “I have no idea if you can eat it, but there it is. If not, I’ll just have it for breakfast tomorrow instead.”

There was no response at the time, so Darcy went about her usual evening of reading the same book for the fourth time, staring around the house mentally speculating about the ghost, and trying to force her clothing back into some semblance of a civilised state (she was _not_ very good at sewing, but had just about managed to salvage her ripped shirt, if you didn’t look too closely).

In the morning, the paper bag was gone. In its place was a note. Hand-written in precise, almost runic script on a square of thick paper. Darcy picked it up with quaking fingers.

**‘Rent is payable in muffins.’**

* * *

Darcy – it was odd, having a name for her now. He was still PHG to her, or just plain ‘ghost.’ Occasionally when she had recently been unclothed she would tease (or at least, he thought it was teasing) him about ‘perving’ on her naked. Loki took to knocking things over in protest every time the accusation was made where he could hear it.

Now she had concrete evidence that he existed, Darcy spoke to him more coherently, often coming home and pattering on about her day, alternating where she directed her conversation to different places around the room as she moved through it. Most days she worked, there would be a muffin for him left on the kitchen table. Sometimes she would return without, and apologetically admit that there hadn’t been any muffins left over. Still, there was usually an alternative.

“O mighty ghost-man (still assuming you’re a man, dude.),” she had begun dramatically the first time she returned sans muffin. “hear my prayer – hey, do you pray to a ghost? I dunno doesn’t seem right. Oh! A sacrifice? No that’s demons… oh, hey an offering that’ll do. Anyway.

“O mighty ghost of undetermined gender. I bring forth to thee this offering.” She placed a small rectangle wrapped in gold on the table where the muffin would usually sit, then stepped back, spreading her arms.

“The fates (OK so the customers, muffins were popular today) have determined that there shall be no offering of muffinly goodness on this day. Pray, take instead this Twix to satisfy your otherworldly sweet-tooth, and rent requirements.”

Loki snickered to himself, but, learning from his past mistakes didn’t allow her to hear him. He thought she might take it in her stride now she was more confident of not being stabbed, but he preferred not to scare away the single source of variety he currently had in his life. Darcy bowed her way away from the ‘rent offering’ to ‘appease the vengeful spirits of this house’ (her words in the continuing monologue), and headed to the bathroom, muttering about ‘peep shows still not being part of the tenant’s agreement, even to replace muffins.’

Loki flicked his fingers, and a book fell from one of his bookshelves upstairs, thudding against the ceiling above them. Darcy jumped, then flapped a hand carelessly behind her,

“Yeah yeah, I getcha big guy, you’re not peeking. Sorry. Jeez.” She turned when she reached the hall and rolled her eyes in his general direction, lips quirked in a smile. It was unnerving when she did that – she was about a metre off, but she sometimes seemed able to tell his location with far too much accuracy, given that he was, in theory, undetectable.

He left her another note that evening whilst she slept, the Mars symbol drawn on a square of parchment. She grinned when she found it, and began to call him ‘dude’ more often. She also began to ask him more regularly if he had been the ‘hallucination’ she saw out in the snow. He couldn’t bring himself to answer that one, for in the snow she had seen him turn, and he had rather she believe him a ghost than a monster.

She loved her job. Besides the thrill of having a regular income, she told him, she adored how every day was something different, with new people and stories playing out in front of her. She always had a story to bring back to the house about some ridiculous customer demanding their coffee ‘freshly boiled but cool enough to drink’, or cocky ‘jock’ teenage boys talking to her cleavage whilst trying to flirt their way to a free drink.

Her stories drew his attention to her scathing wit as she described how she had verbally destroyed all challengers. Loki loved to hear the scorn in her tone as she recalled for him the vitriol she had spat at those who dared slight her.

One morning, he left a note suggesting how she might gain vengeance on a particularly irritating repeat customer she suspected was stealing from the tip jar. She giggled for a full minute after reading it, and eventually calmed enough to explain that rigging the tip jar to bite him was a little beyond her mechanical capabilities – especially if it was going to choose where to bit him as Loki suggested.

“After all,” she chuckled, grinning at the room in a way Loki liked to think was intended for him. “If it’s going to aim for something as small as this guys gonads it’d have to be a hell of an intelligent machine. Bet Tony Stark could do it.”

She left that morning with a smile on her face. Loki sat in his usual seat by the window of his bedroom and read.

Eight hours after her departure, blasts began to ring through the city. His eyes darted up. A gaping portal yawned in the skies over the city, unidentifiable beings shooting down from it. The explosions continued and plumes of smoke rose above the trees – an attack!

Nearly four hours later, the explosions stopped. Night fell.

Loki waited, and hoped. A part of him wanted to strike out in search of Darcy, make sure she was safe, but he knew he could not – without the power of his magic he would be useless, just as easily killed or injured as any other lowly inhabitant of this city. How did mortals ever bear leaving their homes, fragile as they were? He waited.

Twenty-six hours after leaving that morning, Darcy had yet to return.

* * *

Explosions sounded not so far away. Sirens rang, and Darcy immediately dropped what she was doing.

“What’s that mean?” She asked Minzhe, her manager. He looked blank for a moment, then jerked quickly into movement.

“An attack, I think.” He gasped. “We need to get to the basement.”

Darcy, and Minzhe managed to herd the customers downstairs, and they crouched nervously in the small cellar, listening to the crashes and explosions blocks away. Iron Man’s distinctive repulsor sound soared past above them many times, echoing along the street following a strange whirring buzz of what sounded like another aircraft. Then, another buzz – similar to the first but deeper, more massive blared down the street. Darcy clutched her ears to block out the piercing noise, seeing others in the cramped cellar imitate her. Then, the world fell apart. Instinctively, Darcy curled herself up, covering her head with her hands and waiting for the roaring of crumbling concrete to subside around her. Small pieces of debris ricocheted through the room, and she felt one strike her forehead, wetness seeping from the wound it left behind and stinging her eyes. Cursing, she pulled off her apron and used it to staunch the flow.

The basement had mostly held up, but it appeared the building had fallen around them, as the door had caved in and a huge pile of rubble now blocked their escape.

The hours passed in a blur of fear and waiting. Time was something fragile, easily warped by a casual comment, either stretching into days or compressing into minutes with a single word.

The explosions ended before long. The silence that followed them was, perhaps worse than the battle. Perhaps the world was no longer ending, perhaps they were safe… but perhaps it had already ended. Outside the sun set, but trapped in the dark they barely noticed.

Scrabbling sounds that finally trickled down through the rocks, were met initially with a combination of fear and excitement – was this a rescue, or a search for further victims to destroy? After a moment of frozen apprehension, Minzhe called out to the people behind the wall of rubble.

“We’re down here! Six people. Get us out, please!”

They held their breath waiting for the response. The voices filtering back to them were undeniably human.

“Gotta wait for the feds to check the building,” one voice called down, thick with a Bronx accent, “They need to check its stable, this whole street’s pretty much wrecked so you might be waiting a while.”

They were waiting through the night. By the time the rubble was shifted, wooden beams temporarily supporting their escape route, the sun had risen again and they were all weak with hunger. They grasped the proffered bottles of water gratefully, sipping them as directed as blankets were wrapped around their shoulders and wounds were checked.

A few buildings away, Darcy dimly registered a group of teenagers being helped out of a building in even worse shape than her own – a language school, from the looks of the sign leant against the wall outside.

“Ma’am,” someone approached her as she stared mutely at the children, clustering in groups of the same language and chattering away. She tore herself away, and looked up at the person who had spoken.

“Me?” She asked, and they nodded – they weren’t wearing any uniform, but seemed to be acting as a runner for the two EMTs working to treat and check injuries across the whole street. Obviously, the professionals were spread thin with all the injuries there must be across the city.

“Yes ma’am. If you’d just head over this way, you’ll want to get your head injury checked up.”

Darcy grimaced. “Oh, no thanks, I don’t have any insurance and I really can’t…”

“Tony Stark has already announced he’ll be covering at least the immediate medical costs.” The man interrupted her, “They’ll just dress it and check for a concussion.”

Numbly, Darcy agreed. It was hard to match the asshole who had invaded her (the ghost’s) home with the hero who had defended them, and then selflessly taken on what must be a huge bill…

The man shepherded her over to a queue where, after a wait she was seen by one of the EMTs. The woman checking her over looked stressed and exhausted, but seemed satisfied that Darcy was not in danger of bleeding out, or showing symptoms of a concussion. She discharged her to one of the first aiders who had volunteered to act as assistants in the wake of the disaster. They cleaned and dressed her wound, talking as they went.

“Do you have someone we could call to pick you up? You have a head injury, and I know the doc said you’re alright so far, but you shouldn’t be alone for another 24 hours or so, just in case of complications.”

Darcy bit her lip.

“I’ll be OK. I live with someone, but neither of us have phones so we can’t call him. I’ll just get home and make sure I let him know.”

The man didn’t look particularly happy with her response, but said nothing, only securing the bandages and sending her on her way with a harried ‘take care’ to see her off. Shrugging, Darcy spoke to Minzhe who had already called Sally, the owner of the café to give her the bad news. Miserably, he informed Darcy that yes, for the time being she was out of a job – they all were.

Devastated, Darcy hugged him goodbye and turned away, picking her way through the debris-littered streets to make her way home.

Cordons and detours meant the twenty-minute walk took her nearly 2 hours. By the time she made it to the house, she was exhausted.

* * *

Twenty-six hours after Darcy had left, Loki was still stubbornly denying to himself that he was afraid for her. Never mind the fact that he had not yet slept; Never mind that he was on the verge of going out to find her, impossible as that might be in this city of millions. He had finally given up on pretending nonchalance, and was summoning human clothing to go outside, when he heard the front door.

He was in such a rush to get down and see her, he almost forgot to hide himself.

She was alive. Her smile was gone, white gauze wrapped around her forehead to cover a still sluggishly-bleeding wound – he could see the blood peeking through her dressings, but she was _alive._

An attack, she said, standing in the hallway motionless, reporting numbly like a green, young soldier returned from their first battle. Some huge horde of creatures soaring down from the sky. Shooting and explosions, and a group of mortals called The Avengers who saved the city. It was undoubtable, Darcy said, that they had saved many thousands of lives. They had done an amazing job, and they were lucky so much of the city was still standing. She should be grateful to be alive.

And yet, she said, tears running down her cheeks, leaving salty trails in the dust and dried blood, she could only think one thing. Perhaps it was selfish, she admitted, perhaps it was callous, but if only they could have managed to save that tiny coffee shop she loved.

She also mentioned, almost casually that she might have a concussion, so if she started vomiting or fainting, or went dizzy in the next few hours, that was why.

“I’d ask you to look after me,” she’d said with a shrug, “But actually I don’t know what you can do, being mostly incorporeal and all. I think. Actually, are you incorporeal or just avoiding me? Oh, I dunno, but you sure as hell can’t call 911, I’m guessing? Though actually, even if you can, don’t do that I can’t afford medical bills. Just… well, maybe stop me like, choking on my own puke or bleeding out if I fall and hit my head again somehow? Whatever.”

She slept, not long after that, for the first time since leaving the house the day before. Loki sat beside her on the sofa, staring at the fragile body curled up there.

He felt suddenly angry with humanity, and with her. She was such a good, innocent creature – so far as he could tell she had committed no crimes and done no wrongs, and yet here she was lonely and miserable, again. How was it right, how was it fair that one such as her should be left in such desolation? And why, in the name of Yggdrasil did she not simply go back to her family? What possible reason could she have to continue to run, to subject herself to such danger, and unhappiness?

She sniffed in her sleep, grasping tighter on the cushion clutched to her chest. His anger drained out of him. Perhaps there was more to her story than he knew. Cautiously, he brushed his fingers against her brow, pushing the gauze bandage up and out of the way when she did not wake.

Her wound was not large, but it was deep enough that on a mortal it might scar. Smaller strips of self-adhesive bandage seemed to be holding it closed. Loki frowned at the damaged flesh, which had barely even begun to knit together anew. Summoning a spark of magic, he gently hastened the process, coaxing her mortal body into repairing itself until her forehead was smooth and unblemished once more.

Another spell, and the grime was gone, at least from her face and hair. He sighed, reluctant to leave her alone given what she had said about a possible concussion. They were not something he was overly familiar with, being extremely uncommon amongst the Aesir, but he knew they could be dangerous. Rolling his eyes at his own softness, he summoned his book, and read it silently, sat in a chair opposite the couch where he could watch over her sleeping form.

She slept for nearly ten hours – Loki was beginning to fear that perhaps her head injury had her slipping into a coma. He was crouched over her, attempting to scan for damage to her mind and finding none when she finally stirred, quite suddenly.

He jumped, and fell backwards, banging into the table beside the couch and knocking over a candle that rested there. He cursed soundlessly, and stood. Darcy was now sat up on the sofa.

“Hey PHG, were you watching me sleep? Not cool, dude. Guess I’m not concussed though, I feel fine. No headache or anything.” She reached up to run her fingers through her hair and discovered her undone bandages. “Aw man, and you messed up my bandages? I don’t have any mo-” She cut herself off mid-word when her probing fingers discovered the lack of injury. “No way.” She breathed, staggering out of her nest of blankets and disappearing into the bathroom to investigate.

“No way!” He heard her shout, sounding delighted and a touch hysterical. She reappeared in the main room. “PHG, you totally healed me up right? I didn’t just sleep for weeks? Are you Jesus or something? Man, this is awesome.” Her fingers skated back and forth across her brow, marvelling at the smooth, unblemished skin. “OK, so now I guess I’m not going to like, pass out or something I’m going to take a shower. I probably stink…”

She was gone, not even remembering to tease him about sneaking a peek at her in the shower. Loki smirked – she had not seemed too morose. Perhaps finding herself well again had cheered her up. Indeed, for the first few hours after the shower, she seemed fine. She busied herself washing her clothes and clearing up the living room, then scrubbing the bathroom clean and even attempting to dust inside his library – once Loki realised what she intended, he sealed the door. She was _not_ touching his books.

He regretted it though, when he realised her frantic cleaning had been a way to keep herself busy, and cheerful. She buried herself in a book for the next few hours, barely moving from the sofa… and then finally snapped, dropping the book and hiding her face in her hands, curling in on herself and burrowing into the cushions as if she could disappear inside them.

She sat, silently, occasionally sniffing or shaking her head. The sky was dark outside by the time she moved again. She seemed to come to some sort of decision, suddenly leaping up and whirling through the room in a flurry of activity. There was a small writing desk under the staircase, and it was here she settled herself, battered journal and stub of a pencil held tightly in her hands.

From her expression, Loki might have thought she was about to go into battle, and she stared at the blank page she had open just as apprehensively as one might stare down an enemy. After a moment of this stand-off, she huffed out a breath and drew a line down the centre of the page. ‘Pros’ was written at the top of one side, ‘Cons’ on the other. She then began to write, seemingly randomly in each column.

In ‘Pros’ went things like ‘money,’ ‘easy, maybe?,’ ‘money again,’ and ‘epic tits = customers.’ In ‘Cons’ went ‘dangerous,’ ‘hard to let do,’ ‘ugly/old guys?,’ ‘medical – STI?,’ and ‘pimp or solo?’

He could make neither head nor tail of this list. It seemed, so far as he could tell, to simply be nonsense words. What did her breasts have to do with custom? And what in the name of Asgard was a pimp?

It wasn’t until she began to talk herself through it that he understood. Horror thrilled through him and he could not help what happened next.

* * *

“OK Darcy. Just make the damn decision. I’ve either gotta go for it or not, you can’t half-ass this shit.” Darcy muttered to herself. “I’ve got that guys number, I know he’d find me customers but shit, do I wanna go through someone? Though otherwise, where do I even start? It’s not like I’ve got the gear to look the part…” She paused, tapped the pen on her lips and added that to the ‘cons’ column. “God though, I would do well with it… it’s what, like, a hundred dollars a pop? At least…” She underlined ‘money’ again in her ‘pros’ column. “Might be able to afford rent pretty quick… maybe even go back to college after what, like a couple of years saving?” She shuddered. Two years was a long time to let strangers paw at her body for money. But then, “It’s easy work. Damn, I can flirt like nobody’s business, and it’s not like I was ever an angel, what’s a few more guys?” She added that to the ‘Pros’ column – ‘few more notches = so what?’ “No-one has to know, it’s not like I’ve got a ton of friends to hide it from… once I’m done I can just… not tell anyone. Move away and never come back and…” She felt sick. She could see her decision looming, was starting to think she had no choice. She was desperate, and nothing else was working out for her… surely this was just another step on the way to trying to turn it around. She could do it.

“I could do it.” She told herself, trying it out in her mind. She had to say it, if she couldn’t even say the word she could never manage to act the part.

“I could do it,” she said, forcing confidence she didn’t feel into her tone. The back of her neck prickled, but she ignored it, trying to find some determination to strengthen her tone. “I could be a…”

“No!” The cry came from directly behind her – a man’s voice, vehement and angry.

Darcy screamed and threw herself from the chair, backing away so she was against the wall and looking up at the man who had suddenly appeared behind her.

His face was pale, sharp in lines of shock and dismay as he stared at her with livid eyes. Fear rushed through her. This was the ghost, she was sure of it. He may have looked after her, healed her and fed her and given her shelter, but the fury etched across his face now reminded her that this being had started their acquaintance with threats of violence.

She cowered against the wall, pressing herself into the corner. He appeared to realise he had frightened her and took a careful step away, visibly, consciously relaxing his taut posture.

* * *

Darcy was on the floor, eyes wide and bright with fear as she stared up at him.

“PHG?” She asked shakily.

He nodded, jaw tight. “You cannot do that.” He uttered stringently.

“Do what?” Darcy asked challengingly, fear receding now.

“This, sell yourself, become a… You cannot!” He said again, stumbling over his words in his desperation to convince her.

“I kinda have to. Nothing else has worked, and at this point it’s pretty much my only marketable skill.”

“How can that be so?” He asked furiously, “You need not sink to such a level as to whore yourself out for petty cash... Can you not just go home?” He pleaded. Darcy went blank, eyebrows lifting, lips twitching in a hysterical smile. It almost looked like she was giving some serious thought to laughing in his face.

She was silent for a moment, then “Home?” She screeched, “I don’t have one! I didn’t get my degree, so I got kicked out of college halls and had nowhere else to go.”

“But, your parents? Surely you could go back to them? What could you possibly have done that they would not accept you back when you are truly in need?”

Darcy laughed, and it was a harsh, broken thing.

“Are you stupid or just really that naïve? I don’t have parents, asshole. My Dad left before I was born, and my mom when I was 5. Just walked out the house one day and never came back. _I_ never did anything, and it took me years of shitty therapy for me to even sort-of believe that, thank you very much.” She clambered to her feet and leaned against the wall, hands wrapped around herself. “This isn’t my first time on my own. When Mom left I was stuck in my house for 8 days before anyone thought to check why I wasn’t in school.”  

Her bitter, matter of fact description of her past sent Loki reeling. He had never given thought to such a thing – how had he failed to even consider that? His family had always been there, wherever he wandered, whatever mischief he committed, no matter how he professed not to need them, they always took him back. He always had a place to return to when he needed sanctuary from the world, from the messes he put himself into through curiosity or spite, or simple accident.

“I… I did not think…” he began, but Darcy interrupted him. Fear forgotten, she advanced away from the wall towards him, working herself up into a fury. Her hands were now flying, throwing them above her head in frustration or chopping them vigorously through the air for emphasis.

“Then you’re lucky, I guess. You’ve had enough of a safety net that you’ve never even had to imagine a life without one. Hell, you’re _dead_ and you still have a nicer house than I’ve ever seen! I’ve been living on the streets for more than a year now, getting work where I can. I don’t _have_ a home, and having nowhere to wash for weeks on end doesn’t exactly get you good jobs, cos you fucking _stink!_ I have nothing left. I tried all the normal ways, it just never worked. I’m trying to save, but as it is I’ve barely got enough to put down a deposit, never mind pay rent every month!” Her voice broke, and she shrank visibly, turning back to the desk and staring at the notebook. “This is it, PHG. I need enough money to make rent, I _need_ it. Because if I don’t get out of this soon I’m scared I never will. I have nowhere else to go, and nothing else to give except… well,” she gestured at herself. Her breaths were coming fast, every muscle of her body tense with fear and anger and the sheer weight of stress.

He stared, forgetting she could see him now. Her face, flushed with anger was gaunt but still beautiful, plush lips twisted in a frown framed by her dark hair. Her body held the promise of luscious curves. Now she was little more than skin and bones, but her hips were shapely and appealing, and even wrapped in the thick fabric of his tunic – she always wore his tunic when she was upset (apparently, it was snuggly and smelt nice) – her breasts were magnificent. He could see why men might pay to spend time with such a form, she would make a handsome living for sure, but no – she was not willing. Oh, she might convince herself she was, might choose to sacrifice her dignity for the sake of her future, but it would surely hurt her deeply to do so. He could not allow it. Desperate to make her see sense, he reached for her, grasping her shoulders.

“Stay here then,” he implored her. “I will no longer take muffins for rent.” He expected her to gladly accept, to laugh at his offer, at the ridiculousness of ever taking muffins as payment of rent. Instead, she stiffened even further in his arms. Her hands shot up to push at his chest, and weak as she was compared to him, he did not notice she sought to break away until she was practically pummelling him. He released her immediately and she shot away as if she had been burned, pushing herself back against the wall again.

“I will _not_ ,” she hissed, “pay you with that.”

For a moment, Loki didn’t know what she meant. Then, he understood.

Norns, what had happened to that silver tongue of his, to now speak words so clumsily she might misunderstand them thus. And again, confusion and frustration twisted his words, turning what should have been persuasion into spite as he spat back,

“If you would not give it to me then perhaps you should reconsider the path you seek to tread. I doubt surrender would be any easier with a stranger.”

Darcy let out a single sob, then was silent. Her eyes squeezed closed, and her face worked furiously to fight off her overwhelming emotions, grief and fear and torment twisting her lips, head jerking minutely from side to side as she screamed and debated internally. Then, quite without warning, she froze, barely even seeming to breathe. For an instant, all was still, then she opened eyes full of cold, miserable acceptance.

“Fine,” She said, voice barely above a whisper. She stepped reluctantly towards him, like a marionette on a string, like a woman headed for the gallows. She would not look him in the eye, but stared unseeingly at his chest. “I’ll do it.” Her voice sounded strained – almost rusty – the sound cracked and broken as her tired soul.

Realisation struck him like a dagger to the gut and he backed clumsily away from her. “No,” he gasped, “no, I did not mean it like that, I do not want that, would not take that from you no, by the Norns no.”

He stood now fully halfway across the room from her, but he could still see the desperate, exhausted confusion on her face.

“But I… you said…” Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over, and she hugged herself tightly. “I don’t understand.” He had never heard her sound so young and scared. Cautiously, he approached, taking her hands and pulling her into an embrace just as his mother had done to him as a boy, cradling her head to rest against his shoulder. She did not resist, though nor did she relax into his arms, remaining tense and unsure as he held her.

“I will take nothing from you. I do not require rent of _any_ sort, and can provide us both with food enough to live on.” He soothed. “Ultimately, the choice must rest with you, but you do not have to do this. You… if you wish, you can make this your home.”

Finally, she melted into his arms, sobbing against him and clutching at the fabric of his jerkin, tears soaking into his undershirt. He let her cry for a few minutes, nervously stroking one hand over her hair whilst he debated what to do with the other so as not to spook her again. He settled for holding it still, pressed into the middle of her back. When her gasping breaths began to show signs of evening out, he swept her up and carried her over to the couch, seating her gently on the cushions and moving to sit himself in one of the armchairs across from her.

The distance cleared his mind.

“I think, perhaps we must talk.” He began. She was staring openly at him now, realisation that she could _see_ him finally breaking through the fog of her emotions. “However, I do not believe now is the time for such things. We are…” he hesitated, reluctant to admit weakness. “We are both of us tired, possibly a little overwrought. Perhaps sleep first, and we will talk on the morrow?” He tried to smile, tried to put her at ease.

She did not smile back, but she nodded, one sharp, decisive jerk of her head as she pulled a cushion into her lap to wrap herself around it.

“Very well then,” he stood and stepped away. “I will speak with you in the morning, Lady Darcy.” He inclined his head in a shallow bow, and disappeared.

* * *

Darcy tried to sleep, she really did, but still she lay awake for hours, her mind at war with itself. Relief and fear battled for precedence in her thoughts, along with wonder, anxiety, gratitude and bitterness all at once.

Her ghost really was a man – or at least could appear as one. He was offering her somewhere to stay – security, safety… but could she truly believe him when he said he wanted nothing from her? He had let her stay thus-far, had saved her life and looked after her… but then, he also had a darkness in him. She had seen the depths of his fury, been on the receiving end of it on her first visit. Was she safe with such a creature?

And what even was he? Having seen his face now, she knew he was the one who she remembered seeing out in the snow, but he had turned blue! So, was he human? Living, dead, undead, immortal? She did not know, this was all so far beyond her ken it terrified her.

Then there was fascination. Whatever else he might be, he had cared for her when she needed it, and for that at least, she believed he must have good in him – whatever else he might hold. And she could not deny that he was damn sexy. Even when she had thought he wanted… that, and had backed away in horror, a part of her had whispered that at least he was hot, at least she wouldn’t have to fake being attracted to him…

She shuddered. If there was ever a less appropriate time for her sex drive to pipe up, she didn’t know it. Still, the thoughts swirled in her mind along with countless others, until finally she succumbed to her fatigue, and slept.

* * *

By the time Loki ventured downstairs in the morning, Darcy was up. He appeared silently and invisibly in the doorway of the living room and watched her for a moment, trying to assess her mood. She had clearly showered, and was now bustling around the kitchen, full of nervous energy. The kettle was steaming on the stove, and there were two mugs sat waiting beside it. He transported himself back to the top of the stairs and walked down on them, ensuring his footsteps echoed down the stairwell to warn her of his approach.

When he arrived downstairs, she was stood, stock still by the kettle, which was now boiling over. He stopped at the corner of the stairs and inclined his head politely, waiting to be acknowledged before he advanced any further.

“Good morning,” she managed after a moment, voice high and strung tight with nerves.

“Good morning.” He responded. “May I sit down?”

She nodded, then turned jerkily away and busied herself with the kettle, pouring the boiling water into the mugs and stirring them, filling the kitchen with a sharp, rich aroma he had grown used to since her arrival, but never tasted. She added milk and stirred the mugs again, ignoring him completely. Eventually though, she had nothing more to busy herself with. He watched her shoulders rise and fall as she took a deep, steadying breath and turned to join him, a mug of coffee held in each hand.

She sat down across from him, perching nervously on the chair. Loki checked his own stance, irritated to realise he probably appeared just as on edge as she did. Leaning back in the chair, he crossed his legs elegantly and put on his ‘court’ expression, a carefully refined combination of boredom and arrogance designed to put off those who might wish to make fun of the second prince.

Her hand shook as she put the coffee down. Damn. Apparently, he was scaring her, again. He leaned forward to take the mug she pushed towards him.

“Be at ease, Lady Darcy,” he soothed, “I do not wish you harm.” He took a sip of the beverage and winced as it scalded his tongue. The action was not intentional, but it did seem to calm her more than any of his deliberate efforts so far – a smirk tugged at the corner of her lip.

“Careful, it’s hot,” she warned redundantly. Loki just twitched an eyebrow at her. “Yeah, sorry maybe shoulda led with that but um, I was kinda distracted. Um…”

“An introduction, perhaps?” Loki offered. She nodded gratefully, cradling her own coffee close to her chest but not making any move to drink it yet. “My name is Loki.”

“OK…” Darcy replied, weighing her words carefully. “So, why are you here then?”

Loki frowned to himself – he had come downstairs with the intention of lying to her, of feeding himself into the story she had already half constructed. Now though, he found himself yearning to tell her the truth, to give himself someone on this blasted realm he could confide in. He didn’t know yet where to start though, so for now he settled on a half-truth.

“I… I am a sorcerer, Lady Darcy,” He began. She interrupted him before he could continue.

“Just Darcy, please, this isn’t the middle ages, dude. A sorcerer, huh? I’d call bullshit if I hadn’t seen you pull that poltergeist act about fifty times by now.”

“Indeed. Darcy then, I am indeed a sorcerer, capable of far more than simply moving things around, or hiding from your view.” He touched his fingers to his own forehead where her wound had been, and she mimicked the gesture, nodding. “However, my powers are bound to this house. I can leave, but when I do I must leave my magic behind me. My magic is… I have wielded it so long it has become like a part of me, my greatest weapon and my staunchest defence. To be without it is uncomfortable, so I tend to avoid leaving. I suppose, in some respects I am become a ghost, haunting this house in hope of eventual release.”

“Um. If you’re not a ghost why do you dress and… and _talk_ so old-timey?” Darcy asked, “I feel like I’m in an old, British palace, not some secret Central Park house...”

“Well… I am a one-thousand-year-old Prince of another Realm, so that is not so surprising.” Loki admitted.

Darcy choked on her laughter. “Haha, good one, god your delivery was excellent, like, totally deadpan and serious… oh my god you’re serious.”

Loki laughed, the sound echoing around the large room. He realised with a sudden surge of bittersweet sadness that he could not remember the last time he had truly laughed out loud – not just a chuckle, or a snort but a real laugh.

Darcy seemed surprised too, watching him with her eyebrows quirked in confusion.

“OK so were you actually serious, and you’re laughing cos I didn’t believe you, or were you joking and you’re laughing because I did… God, you’re so confusing!” She took a sip of her coffee whilst Loki calmed himself.

“No, no, I spoke the truth.” Loki confirmed, and her eyes widened a little. “I… do not really know why I laughed so. I suppose it is amusing to be seen as so very… alien when the concept of realms and magic and such is so natural to me.”

“Huh…” Darcy considered his words a moment, then nodded her understanding. “So, um…” She bit her lip, teeth sinking in to the soft skin. “What now?”

“Could you…” Loki hesitated… “If it is not too personal a question, could you tell me your story? I know only parts of it.”

Darcy considered, then nodded again, drained the remainder of her coffee and put the mug down with a deep, measured breath.

“OK.” She began. “But then I want yours, too.”

And she told him. All the horror and misery of her childhood, the brief window of happiness and hope earned through study and the angry, bitter disappointment as it was torn away from her through no fault of her own. And now the streets, living her life in constant mistrust and fear, striving every day to escape and watching her hopeful future slide further out of sight. Then the house, him, the job… more hope, then lost again to fate.

The Norns had been cruel to this girl, Loki realised. She had gone through so much pain and unhappiness in her life, had so much to be angry for and yet… through all the darkness around her she remained a ray of sunlight, seizing happiness where it pierced through the gloom and never, never giving up.

He hadn’t realised his weakness until he compared himself to her strength.

“And now I’m here, making coffee for a thousand-year-old space prince…” She finished, gesturing at him weakly and shifting in her seat.

“I… see…” Loki struggled for words. “Your life has been full of trial. I am sorry.” The sentiment seemed useless, coming from a man who grew up with servants to fulfil his every need, but he gave it anyway, hoping she might understand.

She seemed to. “It’s alright.” She smiled breezily. “It is what it is. I mean, it sucks, but whining won’t change it you know.”

“Would it change if you stayed here?” Loki asked, knowing the answer but needing to ask. “You know you are welcome.”

“It would change _so_ much…” Darcy near whispered, “but, _why?_ The first time I came here you nearly killed me. Why let me stay now?”

“The first time you came I did not realise your need. I had only been here about a week. I was selfish and angry that my sanctuary had been disturbed. The second time… I could tell from your voice and your… condition that you _needed_ a sanctuary of your own right then… that you were fleeing something you feared more than death. After that… I came to enjoy your visits. I had not known that I was lonely, but I missed your presence the times you did not come regularly. And then the snowstorm… I feared for you, though I would not admit it, so was reluctant to allow you to return to living in conditions that could just as easily kill you.”

“Right…” She looked less certain about the entire affair than he had expected. “Look, um, there’s no nice way to ask this question but how’s that whole ‘murderous angry streak’ of yours these days? Cos um, I have some questions that might be a bit sensitive and I really don’t want to die…”

Loki chuckled, but it was a warped, sad thing as he knew she was honestly nervous of him. “You have my word I will not harm you. Ask your questions, Darcy.”

It was a hard promise to keep. Not physically – he had no desire to harm her bodily at all, but verbal harm was a different story. He bit his tongue to hold back cruel words and deflections as she asked pointed questions about his past, prying into things painful and secret: His adoption, his misdeeds… even the monster. She listened to his shaking voice with an even expression, gasping at all the appropriate moments, dropping into sympathy when he spoke of his unhappiness, but giving him no sign of how she was taking his story overall.

To speak was like catharsis. The words and memories seared his soul as he spoke them, but maybe, just maybe to let them loose cauterised some of the wounds left by the discovery of his nature.

Would she run from him, now she knew him to be a monster who had invaded Earth, deemed enough of a threat to have the Iron Man come looking for him? Or would she leave because of the monster hidden below his flesh? Or perhaps she would even turn away in disgust at his selfishness… His jealous, bitter reaction to his adoption seemed entirely unwarranted now in the face of Darcy, a walking example of the trials that could face those who were not so lucky as to find a loving family… How could he look her in the eye? In fact, he found that he couldn’t.

* * *

Loki finished speaking and stared at his coffee, twisting the mug nervously in his hands. Darcy seized the opportunity to centre herself a moment, to work out how to deal with this frightened mass of insecurities in front of her – not how she had expected this morning to go.

“Well…” she began, and his shoulders tightened in anticipation of her words, clearly expecting scathing anger and dismissal. “Odin sounds like a total douchecanoe.”

His eyes flew up, settling on her face incredulously. The coffee mug shattered in his hands – he wasn’t kidding about the strength then.

“You… what?” He gaped at her, and Darcy couldn’t help a giggle.

“Look, you did some pretty bad shit.” She admitted, and he curled back again, shoulders hunching, “but,” his withdrawal paused, eyes darting back up to hers, “I don’t think you’re actually a bad guy.”

He sat stock upright at that, “but…” he began, but she spoke over him.

“Don’t you dare try bring up the ‘monster’ as justification for being ‘evil’ because that’s just racist.” She warned. Loki closed his mouth, lips twisting in confusion.

She felt for him. This was a man trying to rebuild his entire worldview after it had been ripped out from under him. Yes, he was privileged, had grown up a Prince with a loving family and more gold than he could spend… but privilege didn’t stop you from feeling pain, or betrayal or anger, or any of the myriad emotions she had heard in his story.

“It kinda sounds like you weren’t quite in your right mind whilst doing all that stuff… I like to think you seem a bit more stable now… Do you have any intention of attacking any particular realm again?” She asked, hoping he was being honest with her – surely if he was the sort of guy to attack a planet whilst sane, he would also be the sort of guy who would lie about it.

“It is not on my immediate agenda.” He admitted dryly, raising an eyebrow. The fragments of his shattered coffee mug began to gather themselves together and slide towards the bin. “I suspect you are right that I was somewhat… insane.” He continued, “I suppose that is how my mother persuaded my… persuaded Odin to banish me here after Thor caught me, rather than throwing me in the dungeons as I imagine he would have preferred.”

“Caught you?” Darcy asked, and Loki’s face suffused with shame.

“I… on the Bifrost. After Thor had stopped me. We both fell over and I tried to… let go. Thor guessed what I meant to do, Norns alone know how when he is usually so dense, but he caught hold of me before I could do so.”

Darcy shivered. That sounded like a suicide attempt. That was a lot of breakdown to recover from. Would she be safe, living with him? What if he relapsed and turned back into the vengeful, angry creature he had been when she first arrived. She would not survive should he honestly make an attempt on her life – she was not foolish enough to think she could fight him off.

But then, nor was she able to fully fight off the dangers outside. It was not hard to choose between a known quantity who had shown her months of kindness after a single incident of anger, and the many unknown quantities in the streets that had tried to hurt her – and sometimes succeeded– over and over again.

“Right.” She said, hugging her elbows nervously, “I guess I’m staying then.”

Loki had been staring at her thoughtful face nervously, and the grin that now lit his own expression was all the reassurance she needed that she had made the right choice.

* * *

She was staying! He would not be alone anymore! Happiness he had not felt in what seemed like years buzzed through him as Loki stood, holding out a hand to Darcy to rise with him.

“Well then,” he said, pulling her along behind him, “If you are to be a true resident here now, perhaps you would like to see the rest of the house?”

He tugged and persuaded her up the stairs – she was oddly reluctant – the result, he supposed of nearly a year of avoiding them, and him.

“You’re sure there aren’t going to be any angry ghosts,” she asked again, and he laughed in exasperation.

“I invited you Darcy. Besides which, there is a second bedroom up here which has only been gathering dust – perhaps you would like to use it?”

He pushed her ahead of him through the door of the room right at the top of the stairs. It was dark, drapes pulled over the windows, and furniture covered in sheets. It did not look particularly inviting, but still Darcy looked around it and squeaked with excitement.

“Oh my god, there’s a bed!” She breathed, “I don’t even know how long it’s been since I slept in a real bed!”

Loki’s smile at her evident delight was dampened a little by guilt – this bed had been sitting here unused the whole time she had slept on the sofa. Still, she seemed happy enough, tugging the sheets away, tearing open the curtains and coughing at the dust that swirled in the ribbons of bright sunlight now twisting into the room.

He found some bedsheets in one of the room’s wardrobes and helped her sort the room out, magically clearing the dust away whilst she made the bed. The whole time, a small smile was playing around his lips.

He had done something good – something which was making Darcy delighted, giving her a haven she undeniably deserved, but that she had thought gone forever. And it was largely selfless – yes, he was making a gain in the form of her companionship, but well, there was no way such immaterial payback would have been enough for him before.

Over the next several weeks, he only rarely regretted his offer to Darcy – and even then only slightly. The times when she needled at his temper by nagging him to get out of the house were balanced by the times she bounced happily back in from the outside world chattering about the latest upturn in her life. She had actually succeeded in drawing him outside a few times. Between them, they had cleared some of the trailing plant away from the walls of the house, leaving enough to look attractive, but not so much that it still covered the doors and windows. However, he had not ventured further than the end of the driveway since she had been unwell.

“I’m guessing the magic mumbo-jumbo that this house came from is OK with me living here.” She announced one day, tumbling through the door with her arms full of groceries. “I went into the city office the other day to ask about who it was registered to. They couldn’t tell me, but they did dig out a rental advert at an insanely cheap price. I said that was what I was there about, which they seemed to believe… So, guess who is now officially a legal resident of this house!”

“You?” Loki asked dryly.

“Yeah!” Darcy squealed, throwing her hands up in the air. “I didn’t want to tell you until it had all worked out but basically, I used this address to replace all my ID and stuff – thank God I was born in this state so I didn’t have to go out of town to get my new birth certificate. Then I got a phone number, then a real bank account, _then_ used the bank account to put down a deposit and pay rent for this house! I have an address! A real one!”

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and it made him smile for a moment before part of her words worked their way into his brain. He felt a small sting of betrayal at the thought that she had not felt this was her home beforehand.

“Wait, so you are paying rent? You do not need to do so, I already agreed that you could make a home here without.”

“Yeah, and that’s fine,” Darcy said, slowing herself down a moment and looking at him carefully, seeming to read the upset in his expression. “It was already home, but for me to start doing all the other stuff I need to get my degree and move on with live, it needs to be official – I need official documents saying I live here as proof of address and stuff. Now I have those things I can apply for way more jobs! I can get a _library card!_ ”

“I see…” Loki replied, the hurt easing at her continued enthusiasm. “A library?”

He had long since read all the books in the house, at least twice. He was bored of them. Perhaps Darcy could acquire more for him.

“Yeah. Don’t worry PHG I’ll get some books for you too.” She teased. “But if I can keep up my studying, then when I do get to go back to school I won’t be so far behind. Plus, I bet there have been _loads_ of good books out that I’ve missed!”

* * *

As it turned out, books were the incentive Darcy needed to get Loki out of the house. He put up with her acting as his courier for a few more weeks, but as he got used to Midgardian literature his requests grew more specific, and Darcy began getting them wrong ‘by accident,’ until eventually he decided that being without magic for an hour or two was less trouble than having to wait a whole week until Darcy had time to go back to the library again.

She was now working in an entry level customer service job in a shoe shop in the nearby mall. She didn’t love it, but nor did she hate it, and she was making a regular pay check, and the rent she had to pay was so ridiculously cheap she had more than enough left at the end of the month to save, provided she was careful with her groceries.

The first time she arrived home to find Loki gone, she was terrified. What if Iron Man had come for him whilst she was out? What if he had worked out a way to leave the house without losing his magic and gone out to terrorise the city? What if he had got his powers unlocked and left – would she lose the house?

By the time Loki arrived home, books in his arms and a smile on his face, she was a tearful mess. She flew at him as he walked through the door, books disappearing so he could hold her when she crashed into his chest and sobbed about how afraid she had been. Then, a few minutes later he was holding her away from him as she gripped his shirt and yelled about how afraid she had been.

“I apologise.” He said quietly, when she had finally wound down and gone back to the crying again. “I lost track of time, and I confess I had not thought how my absence would concern you. Fear not though, if the magic manifesting this house accepts your living here now, I am sure it would continue to do so if I were gone.” Darcy pretended not to hear the whispered ‘please’ he tacked on the end of his reassurance, directed to who knows where.

Once reassured of her forgiveness, he began to tell her excitedly about the library, and how he had spent hours simply walking amongst the shelves before finding the books on law and settling down amongst them. Darcy had loaned him a courtroom thriller she had been reading and he had been fascinated by the subject ever since, ploughing through books dry enough to put Darcy to sleep in seconds in less than a day.

“And then I discovered the computer terminals!” He enthused, “Darcy, there is so much knowledge in this realm, and so readily available!”

He was gone almost every day after that, arriving home an hour or two after Darcy with a new pile of books and some new titbit of information he thought she might find interesting. Several times, he brought a book home he thought she might like. Casually dropping it down beside wherever she had settled. She didn’t ask about how he was getting the books, since he did not have a library card – and he didn’t tell. It seemed having no magic didn’t make him any less of a sneaky bastard.

* * *

A week before Darcy’s birthday, her purse disappeared. She searched for it high and low, cursing herself for keeping her newly replaced ID and her card and everything else all in the same place. She was back to sneaking bills out of the shoebox she still kept under the couch for a while, all the while panicking to Loki, who, to her huge irritation did not seem to understand why she was so upset.

She had been planning to buy herself a cake as well. A bakery on her way to work always had a gorgeous window display, and she had promised herself that she would treat herself to a fancy cake as a celebration of how much better she was doing on this birthday than on the few previous.

By her birthday, there wasn’t enough left in the shoebox to justify more than a couple of cupcakes – one for her and one for Loki. Still, they did look delicious. She had them positioned on the kitchen table with a candle stuck in hers when Loki popped into the living room carrying –

“That’s my purse you bastard!” She shrieked, making him jump so badly he nearly dropped the papers he was also holding.

“Um… Happy birthday?” He said, looking only a little guilty. “I apologise for alarming you but I needed it for your gift.”

“I have a present?” Darcy asked, immediately appeased and making grabby hands towards him.

“You do. I’m afraid you paid for it, but, it didn’t take all your savings…” Loki passed her the sheaf of papers and stepped back, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

Darcy read through the first page carefully. “This is… an enrolment?” She quickly leafed through the rest of the papers, anticipation building in her stomach. “Loki, this is for my old college, what…?”

“I was visiting the library for more than just the books.” Loki admitted. “That lawyer book you had mentioned something about online courses, and I looked them up, then started researching legislation on college admissions and rights and so on… I’ve been secretly negotiating with your university on your behalf for nearly three weeks. They’ve agreed to let you complete the last credits you need at a reduced rate as compensation for the error they made. Once I threatened to take them to court and made it clear I knew what I was talking about they were rather more accommodating. So, you’re signed up to take a online courses worth up to the credits you need to graduate – the other papers are your course options to choose from.”

“I… oh my god.” Darcy spread the papers out on the table, staring. “I could be graduated within a semester…”

“It’s online so you can stay here instead of finding somewhere to rent… and you should still be able to work.” Loki added, “So you will not need to worry about money.”

“Loki… this is… oh god.” Darcy felt her eyes well up with tears. “I don’t know how thank you, this is… oh god hands down this is the best thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

She launched herself at him and sobbed into his shoulder. He held her tight and whispered that she was welcome, that she deserved this after all the storms she had weathered.

* * *

Loki hardly saw Darcy anymore. When she was not at work, she was at the library using their computers to work on her degree, or holed up in her room reading one of countless books.

It was worth it though, for how happy she was.

And her happiness was an inspiration to Loki every day.

She still only owned three pairs of shoes – her snow boots for winter, a pair of flip flops for summer and her work shoes; she planned her meals to a scrupulous budget and wasted not a penny; and more of her clothes had been repaired than had not. Yet, she was happy. She had next to nothing: No family, no luxuries and no precious keepsakes… but she near glowed with gratitude for what she did have.

How was it then, that he had once been so bitter for lacking only a birth family. She did not have that, nor did she have an adopted family – even her friends had been lost to her since ending up homeless.

He had once felt slighted for receiving daggers rather than a hammer and a crown. Darcy had never even seen a crown.

He had once cursed those who sneered at him for seeking knowledge – but however he might have been taunted, no-one had ever actually stopped him from studying, or even really tried with more than empty persuasion. And for years Darcy’s own quest for knowledge had been totally denied to her.

He had been so lucky, so privileged and so very blind.

* * *

By the time she earned enough credits to graduate, Darcy had saved enough to travel down to her university for the ceremony. To her surprised delight, Loki came with her, sitting unobtrusively at the back of the hall with a hat pulled low over his face, but still making a total scene clapping and cheering enthusiastically enough for ten people when it was her turn to walk across the stage and receive her degree.

They got back to New York, and the job hunt began. Loki had recently become fascinated by engineering and physics. He was reading a book about the history of Stark Industries, and suggested she look into positions there. Darcy blanched at the idea of meeting Tony Stark again, but took the suggestion anyway. She spent a few days fretting over how to explain her past homelessness to an application panel for the Maria Stark Foundation before Loki suggested she turn it around to a talking point – having been through the foster system and homelessness herself, she could surely claim to have a broader understanding of the humanitarian work the Foundation underwent.

To her great surprise, it worked. On her first day as an administrative assistant in the political relations department, Darcy stood outside the office in her brand new work outfit for nearly ten minutes before finally summoning the courage to go inside.

It took her three months and two commendations from her boss for work well done before she stopped feeling like a total imposter.

A month after that, she met Tony Stark again. She heard him before she saw him, whining at her boss as she tried to give him a tour. Then, they were stood outside the glass wall separating their office from the corridor.

“Look Wanda, I don’t really want to be here I have things to do, but Pepper said I had to. So do I really need to meet all the people or can I just poke my head through the door, announce things to be OK and leave? That’s enough right, yeah that’s fine.” Without waiting for a proper response from Darcy’s sputtering boss, he turned away from her to stare through the glass partition and made a cursory appraisal of the room. Before Darcy could look away, he did a double take and his eyes came back to rest on her.

“Oh hey, you’re that squatter!” He announced.

Darcy bolted up from her seat as Stark pushed the door open and headed towards her. Most people in the office knew about her former homelessness, but it still wasn’t something she liked to air too often. Scott in accounting in particular was a bit of a dick about it.

“Mr Stark.” She said – sharply, but somewhat politely, she thought. He didn’t seem to notice her tone though, moving closer to her desk and looking around it curiously.

“So, guess you got sorted out then? Good on you. No-one else turned up then?”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought that might be referring to Loki – after all, it was him Stark had been tracking when he’d found her there.

“Not exactly.” She said, hoping she was lying convincingly as she gave the story she and Loki had created. “Turns out the owner is some cute but kinda senile old man. I tracked him down and he offered to rent it to me for a total pittance if I fixed the place up a bit whilst I was at it. And then I could save to get my degree finished and well, got work here.”

“Yeah nice sob story, good on you kid.” Stark’s tone was flippant, but his praise seemed genuine. He picked up her stapler, fiddled with it a few times, then wandered off, loudly announcing to Wanda that since he had now interacted with an employee he was free to go.

* * *

Loki should have known things were going too well. Darcy was happy, and he was finally remembering not to reach for his magic whilst outside, and beginning to explore the city without regularly feeling that horrible draining as he reached for power that wasn’t there. It didn’t really surprise him, therefore, when he passed a shop to see a TV screen in the window broadcasting breaking news about a hostage situation in a Stark Industries subsidiary… A Maria Stark Foundation office… apparently, news so far was that the man had a grudge against Stark and, when unable to get to him directly  had elected to attack through one of his lower-security enterprises.

Wait, the Maria Stark Foundation… Darcy’s office! The realisation sank into him slowly, suddenly choking him with fear. Darcy was in danger!

Unconsciously, he reached for the power to take himself to her and was utterly stunned when he suddenly found himself in the corner of an office where a masked man was holding several people – Darcy amongst them – at gunpoint whilst talking furiously into the phone.

He had not been noticed yet, so focussed were the two parties on each other, so he quickly shrouded himself in a veil of invisibility and took a moment to consider the situation.

He had his magic back! How? And since when? He had not reached for it outside the confines of his home for so long that he couldn’t say for sure when it had been returned to him. He cast his mind back to when his mother had completed the banishment, her words:

_‘Stay, until you have learned to value what you have above what you have not’_

Of course! Darcy had taught him to appreciate how lucky he had been. Seeing her struggle through life, always finding things to make her happy had taught him how to be satisfied with his own good fortune – how long had it been since he had raged about the unfairness of his life either powerless or confined to a single building? He could not remember the last occasion. After all, he had a home with books to read, a city to explore and a companion to laugh with.

His mother’s lesson had worked after all. He briefly wondered whether she had brought Darcy to him on purpose, or if it was merely happy accident. However, those ruminations were interrupted by an escalation of the situation in front of him.

The man was yelling into the phone, spittle flying from his lips as he screamed a warning that he was serious about his ransom. He fired, hitting one of the hostages in the leg. Another hostage – Darcy, of course it was Darcy! – began yelling and cursing creatively at the attacker, blinded by her anger to how she was riling the man up, to how he trained his gun on her now, ready to take her life.

Well, he could not allow that. A twist of power and he was behind the attacker. Just in time, he pulled the man’s arm up so his shot sank into the ceiling, tore the gun away from his hand and threw him backwards, sending him crashing through the glass wall of the room, out into the corridor.

He had not been gentle: In a few brief moments, he had probably broken the man’s elbow, at least two fingers and likely a rib or four, to say nothing of the wounds cut into his skin by the shattered glass he had crashed through. Fury still coursed through his veins at how close the man had come to hurting Darcy. He stalked toward the man, intending to give further outlet to his anger but Darcy’s quick steps ran up behind him, and her gentle fingers touched his shoulder, pulling him back to face her.

“Loki?” She asked, staring at him, blinking fast as though she could not believe her eyes. “It is you! You can do magic again? How? Never mind. Look, just… don’t hurt him more OK. You’ve done so well with getting rid of the Homicidal part of the PHG don’t lose that now!”

Her gentle tease, as well as her hand on his shoulder calmed him, and he stepped back, leaving the attacker to writhe and groan in the shards of glass that surrounded him.

“I cannot stay here.” He said awkwardly, eyes flicking to the room full of strangers now staring at him and Darcy. “I would prefer not to meet with the Iron Man.”

The sound of repulsors soared in the distance, and they both looked to the window.

“Be safe.” Loki whispered. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, then disappeared.

He reappeared in Asgard, where his mother was waiting.

* * *

He didn’t come back.

He disappeared after the attack on her office and never came back.

Darcy nearly lost her job, the job she had worked so hard for. The day after the attack, she had arrived at work only to find her access to the building rescinded. She was then collected from the sidewalk, confused and afraid and directed into a side room where Mr Stark had interviewed her himself, followed by a terrifyingly blank man in a suit, and then a woman with flame red hair. After arriving home the night before to find Loki gone, she decided to be honest with them. There was no point at all in protecting someone who was not there to be protected – especially when he had not been guilty of anything that needed hiding.

When Mr Stark asked her how she knew Loki, she told him the whole story from start to finish. Then, she told it again to Agent Coulson, and again to Agent Romanoff.

They believed her, in the end, and reclassified Loki to a neutral person of interest, rather than a hostile. And she didn’t lose her job – though she was transferred to a new department: A subsidiary under the control of SHIELD. It was technically a promotion, and her pay was much better, but Darcy wasn’t stupid. She knew she was there so they could keep a closer eye on her.

It was a good job though, and actually, Agent Coulson was pretty cool once he decided she wasn’t secretly a double agent and started showing expressions around her.

She missed Loki, and it hurt that he had left so suddenly, but she understood: His magic was back, which must mean he had earned the right to go home. And who wouldn’t want to go back to being a prince? What person in their right mind would live in an overgrown old house in the park when they could live in a palace?

At least the house hadn’t disappeared yet, and nor had anyone come knocking to kick her out. Darcy figured that meant she was OK to keep it – so at least Loki leaving hadn’t kicked her out on in the dust again, even if she could just about have afforded a place of her own (or at least, a shared apartment) now.

She had finally gotten used to being on her own when the ghost came back.

She got home from work, exhausted, and collapsed onto the sofa, throwing her arm over her face and sinking back into the cushions. It was cold outside, but the inside of the house was warm enough – she had worked out how to get the heating working once Loki was no longer around to do it magically.

With her eyes covered, she didn’t notice the sudden flickering light as green flames sprang up in the fireplace.

She was dozing off, almost asleep when suddenly she jerked back to wakefulness. There was a grating noise coming from the kitchen – something metallic.

Slowly, mind working hard she moved her arm away and opened her eyes. She spotted the green flames, turned her eyes to the shadow in her kitchen, the light glinting from the single knife still quivering on the counter.

“PHG?” She asked, standing cautiously from the sofa, hardly daring to breathe. Another knife slid from the block and came to rest on the counter.

Darcy snorted. “Loki, quit screwing around and get over here so I can yell at you for going home without saying goodbye, then hug you stupid for coming back.”

Before she even finished her sentence, his arms were around her, warm lips pressing into her hair.

“I didn’t go home,” He whispered into her hair. “I _am_ home. I didn’t realise until I left, but this is my home now.”

“Well then,” Darcy replied, anger forgotten as she sank into his embrace. “Welcome home.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Disclaimers on the tricky subjects:
> 
> Homelessness: I tried to do my research so I hope my portrayal doesn’t seem too over-romanticised or unrealistic, but having never experienced this sort of situation there’s likely to be a few parts which are a bit wonky. Same with housing laws and regulations, those are definitely played with a bit. I sort of, researched, and then tinkered a bit to make it work. It was the magic that did it, that's my running excuse ;) 
> 
> Sex workers: I have nothing against them – those who choose it and are happy with it. However, a good number of sex workers – even those not actively coerced – are in the job because they feel, for one reason or another, that they have no other choice. Darcy is (or would be) one of those people. This portrayal is not intended to demean those people who have had to make a difficult choice (or indeed, who actively enjoy their work!), only show Darcy struggling with her own decision.
> 
> Timeline: Definitely a little screwy, but this is AU so ima call it artistic licence.
> 
> Here’s how it goes: (dates are vague on purpose!)
> 
> April 2010: Darcy becomes homeless.
> 
> May 2011: Darcy finds the house for the first time, and is chased away.
> 
> June 2011: Darcy goes to the house a second time, and is allowed to stay.
> 
> June 2011 – Jan 2012: Darcy visits the house irregularly to stash money there.
> 
> Feb 2012: Snowstorm. Darcy goes to the house after contracting hypothermia, and ends up staying. Meets Tony Stark at the house.
> 
> May 2012: Battle of New York (different leader as obvs it’s not Loki!). Darcy hurt and starts considering sex work. Loki reveals himself.
> 
> July 2012: Darcy begins renting the house legally.
> 
> September 2012: Loki enrols Darcy on online courses to complete her degree as her birthday gift.
> 
> May 2013: Loki fully learns to appreciate what he has and regains his magic. Does not notice.
> 
> June 2013: Darcy graduates from university.
> 
> July 2013: Darcy starts work at the Maria Stark Foundation.
> 
> November 2013: Darcy meets Tony Stark at work.
> 
> February 2014: Hostage situation at Darcy’s work. Loki realises his powers have returned and goes back to Asgard.
> 
> May 2014: Loki comes back.


End file.
